


Thomas and the Ha(mil)unting

by fanfictiongreenirises



Series: Thomas and the Ha(mil)unting [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Ghost Possession, Laf and Thomas are brothers, Lafayette & his plants, Morse Code, Multi, Panic Attacks, Real Estate Agent Thomas, and by salt i mean literal edible food salt, angelica both james' and burr work with thomas, at what point can you tag something as slow burn, dick clients, finally using my knowledge from watching spn lol, he has a house that's haunted, im not gonna mention what alex is doing bc spoilers, seance, spn characters bc i can, the amount of salt used in this fic jfc, the rest are in uni, too much coconut water rip, working off a prompt ive had stashed away for a while lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2018-12-13 07:16:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 63,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11754792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: Thomas Jefferson is a real estate agent who's sold every building he's ever been assigned. Until one.Alexander Hamilton is in a coma. And it's causing Thomas grief, in more ways than one.Loosely based off a prompt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this for a while now, and it wasn't meant to be as long as it's becoming rip. Shoutout to [Lesty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesty/pseuds/Lesty) for motivation and headcanon sessions (go check out her fics they're gr88888).
> 
> The original prompt was:  
> "The relationship between a ghost inhabiting a haunted house and the real estate agent trying to sell it is starting to get tense."
> 
> There's mouseover for the French bits by the way.

“…and this,” a dramatic pause, “is the master bedroom. It has its own door to the porch, and arguably the best view of the beach in—”

A scream cut him off. Thomas sighed. This was getting ridiculous. He excused himself from the group of concerned potential buyers and made his way to the living room. Which was ironic.

“Ma’am? Is everything alright?” he asked resignedly. He was so used to the scene in front of him: someone standing in a puddle of water, flower petals in their hair, and a now plastic vase at their feet. This wasn’t the first time it’d happened, but he would never stop hoping it would be the last.

“The–there was a…a…I don’t know what it was,” she wailed, looking quite pathetic in her wet state.

Thomas plucked a towel from where he kept them – under the couch – and handed it to her. He listened to her as she rambled on about the vase upending itself on her and dried her hair (at this point, he was in a pretty good position to write scientific essays on the behaviours of wet people, male and female. Females went for hair first, while males were…all over the place, really. In fact, now that he actually thought about it, they didn’t exactly have a solid approach. Huh. He might have to observe some more).

“I’m very sorry that this happened, and I hope it won’t affect your decisions with making a purchase,” Thomas said carefully, testing the waters to see how to handle this particular case. Some ran out of the house, some shrieked like hyenas – one memorable case was the time a pro-wrestler had come to look at the house, and after seeing a vase float by itself and dump its contents on his head, had let out the most god-awfully high pitched and bolted – and some were perfectly willing to blame it on a faulty shelf. Even knowing that the vase had been on a table around knee-height. Thomas was astounded at the capacities of the human brain sometimes.

“Oh, I could never live here, not with its haunted vases,” the woman said. Thomas froze for a moment before recognising the statement for what it was: a joke. He morphed his face into a laugh, and she continued, “Actually, I would never be able to live here. My knees wouldn’t be able to deal with the stairs.”

  
Thomas hid his disappointment like the well trained real estate agent he was. “I have plenty of houses without stairs, if you’d like to take a look.”

 

* * *

 

 

The house was very old, but had been renovated very recently and was practically new. After the fifth incident, Thomas had looked to see if there were any records of deaths in the house, but as far as he could tell, its history was pretty clean. He had no idea why it had a poltergeist.

The only thing left from the original house was its frame. After the eighth incident, Thomas had gone to an old shaman, procured hex bags meant for warding the house against spirits, and stuffed them as instructed. He’s thought it had worked until the ninth incident.

So then he brought a psychic to the house, and the psychic had done something with smoke and incense that had taken forever to get out of the house. And it hadn’t even worked.

After the fifth person he’d brought in to try and solve his issue had said, “This is just a bad case of mould”, he gave up. And even though his sale record was impeccable (apart from this, which should honestly be considered an outlier), he was still known around the agency as the man with the unsellable house.

Figured.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, everyone’s gone now, you can quit twitching,” he called to the house bitterly as he fixed up pillows and put all the real fruit in a basket. There wouldn’t be another open house session here for another three days, and there was no point in leaving around fruit that was going to rot in that time. Better take it back to the office kitchen.

The house, surprisingly, stopped its creaking. That almost never worked. The lights automatically turned on as Thomas walked into rooms, and turned off again as he left them. He huffed a breath in surprise. “You’re being nice. Finally feeling guilty for chasing off all my customers?”

Immediately, all the shutters closed with a loud _crack_ and the lights turned off, leaving Thomas in darkness. His response? Yelling at the house some more. 

“…swear to God, one of these days,” he muttered under his breath as he made his way to the hall, “I’m gonna ‘accidentally’ light this place on fire and leave it to burn. With you in it.”

The lights flickered on slowly.

“Thank you,” Thomas said pointedly. He felt like a parent to a teenager some of these days. Good lord, why was this his life?

 

* * *

 

 

The office was quiet when Thomas entered at midday, and he figured it was probably the unofficial lunch break everyone took at this time for some unknown reason. He walked through the creaky door into the kitchen and break area, and deposited his bag of apples into one of the many fruit baskets sitting on the counter. Because they had an “our houses are fresh!” thing (which Thomas didn’t understand. Wouldn’t it be more sustainable using fake fruit?) there was always fruit hanging around the office from the display houses. But people always seemed to appreciate being told they could snack on them, so maybe it was working.

“Hey, how’d it go?” A deep voice asked from behind Thomas.

Thomas turned and pulled a face at James Madison, his best friend. Partner in crime. Work buddy. His platonic everything, really. “The poltergeist struck again. Seven minutes in. _Seven minutes._ ”

James snorted. “That’s a new record. Must’ve had a really bad group.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Thomas muttered darkly, going to the refrigerator and peering inside for his coconut water. So what if he got looks from the rest of the office, who were all hardcore coffee addicts? His skin was definitely better than theirs. “I didn’t have the time to get to know them.”

James smiled sympathetically. “Do you need to talk about it?” he asked Thomas in the most obnoxiously cliché psychiatrist voice. God, why did no one believe him when he told them James was a Reddit user?

“That depends,” Thomas said, plopping down onto a chair. “Are you going to get as smackdoodled as the last time I took you up on your offer?”

“I can’t believe you still call it ‘smackdoodled’ but no, that was _one time_. And I had reason to want to drink myself to oblivion.”

Thomas felt the stirrings of concern in the pit of his stomach. James was fine now, but he hadn’t always been. (And his actions Back Then had led to a big list of health issues now, and Thomas couldn’t help but keep an eye out for any signs of it returning). 

James saw his look and clarified, “I meant your thing with Hamilton. You complained about his four-hour long speech for five hours.”

Thomas shook his head. It felt wrong to complain about Hamilton, what with his current condition. “Is it weird that I miss his stupid, _stupid_ –”

James cut him off. “Anyway, I should get back to my desk. I’ve got deadlines to meet.” With that, he snagged Thomas’ coconut water – still half full, damn him – and sauntered away.

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas opened the door to the apartment he shared with his brother, Gilbert. Gilbert was adopted, and had a huge name and title, but to Thomas he’d always been ‘Gilbert’. He didn’t like telling people his name was ‘Gilbert’, mostly because the majority butchered the pronunciation – and Gilbert was very determined to hold onto the French part of himself, even though he considered himself an American – but he’d told Thomas he liked the way he said it, so Thomas continued.

“I’m home,” Thomas called out to the living room as he entered. Gilbert would normally be home by now, but since the incident, he’d been coming and going at random. But as luck would have it, he was sitting on the couch tonight.

“Thomas,” he greeted him, his French accent more pronounced with Thomas than with others. “You’re later than usual.” 

“Yeah, had to file these documents for a new buyer. The guy’s a mess.”

Gilbert hummed at the right places, letting Thomas know he didn’t care. Thomas sighed. “What’s up?” And before Gilbert could open his mouth, he added, “and don’t say ‘the ceiling’. That got old centuries ago.”

Gilbert grumbled good-naturedly before sliding down the couch until he lay there stretched across the entire thing, placing his hand on his forehead dramatically. “I am in love.”

Thomas snorted before going to the fridge to get coconut water. He needed to be hydrated if he was going to have to listen to Gilbert’s ‘I am in love’ rant. His brother ‘falling in love’ was a common occurrence, and ever since that one crush back in high school, it had somehow become Thomas’ job to listen and advise him. Not that he ever followed the advice. 

He could still hear parts of what Gilbert was saying: “…are like stars, and his hair! Thomas, you should see his hair, it’s les meilleurs cheveux que j’ai jamais vu!” So Thomas had missed the rambling in English and Gilbert was now to the French bit. That was good; he’d probably spend another ten minutes at this, and then finally slow down enough for Thomas to get actual details. Like who his crush was.

He moved Gilbert’s legs to his lap as he sat down (they really needed to get around to buying another couch, but there were only two of them so it wasn’t exactly the most urgent issue), his elbows firmly pressed down on his shins to stop any sudden movements. He zoned out, partly listening, until Gilbert said, “Je ne pense pas qu’il m’aime bien.”

Then he sat up. “What?” Switching to French – because if Gilbert switched languages like this, it took longer to get answers from him in English – he repeated, “ _What?_ ”

_“He used to allow me to stay in the same room as Alexander when he was treating him or doing check-ups, so I could observe him, but now he rushes me or himself out when I walk in.”_

Wait…Alexander? _“Are we talking about Hamilton?”_

 _“Yes, John is his nurse.”_ Gilbert frowned slightly. _“I told you this a month ago.”_

_“I probably wasn’t paying attention when you mentioned it.”_

_“Apples?”_

_“What?”_

_“You said you probably weren’t paying apples when I mentioned it. Did you mean ‘attention’?”_

Thomas threw a pillow at Gilbert’s head to cover up his ears heating up in embarrassment. “ _Yes, I meant ‘attention’.”_

“ _You should practise your French more. We never talk anymore.”_ Gilbert tossed the pillow back at him, almost knocking over the empty glass of coconut water sitting on the coffee table beside Thomas. _“But back to John.”_

_“So John’s Hamilton’s nurse?”_

_“Yes. He’s been taking care of him since the beginning.”_

Alexander Hamilton was in a coma. He’d been exposed to carbon monoxide from a faulty gas water heater and if it hadn’t been for Gilbert barging in when he did and seeing him seizing on the floor, he may not have survived. It’d taken Gilbert days to finally be convinced to leave Hamilton’s hospital room (actually, he wasn’t convinced so much as forcibly removed by Thomas). And a day after that, the Washingtons (Hamilton’s adopted parents) had decided to move him back to their home, and get a nurse to come in daily. Gilbert had been going over to the Washingtons’ house every day. He said he was learning how to ‘do basic medical treatments’, but now Thomas wondered… 

_“So, this whole time you’ve been ‘learning the basics’, you’ve just been hanging with your crush?”_

Gilbert protested loudly at this. “ _I wouldn’t put another’s life at risk just because I happened to be gazing into the most beautiful eyes…”_

And he was off again. Thomas leaned back into the couch, contemplating on whether he could turn the TV on without Gilbert noticing.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a stranger at the door. Thomas didn’t know who this person was or what they’d come here for, he just wanted them to realise that they had woken him up on his day off and would pay for it with their soul.

Okay, so maybe he should’ve had coffee before interacting with strangers who didn’t know how he was in the morning.

“Can I help you,” he said flatly, his voice making the question a statement. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, his bed hair making a comfortable pillow against the cool wood.

“Uh,” came the eloquent reply from the tall, buff man standing outside his door. “Is Lafayette here?” He shifted awkwardly, not exactly uncomfortable standing there with Thomas’ piercing glare but not willing to leave, either. 

This was probably one of Gilbert’s friends from university. Thomas hadn’t met any of them yet; too busy with work to align his and Gilbert’s schedules. He looked the man up and down, mentally patting himself on the head when he saw the man gulp slightly.

“He should be home,” Thomas finally said. “Come in, I’ll go get him.” Before turning, he asked, “What’s your name?”

The man answered, “Hercules Mulligan, but call me Herc.” Damn, what a name. 

“I’m Thomas.” And judging by the way Herc’s expression changed, it appeared that Gilbert had mentioned him.

Thomas barged into Gilbert’s room as loudly as he could, and went straight to the window. He pulled the blinds back smoothly, smirking in satisfaction when Gilbert groaned at the ray of sunlight hitting him directly in the face. “Get up, there’s someone here for you.”

A voice came from under the pile of blankets. Thomas paused. “What?”

There was a shuffling noise, and a face popped out. “Who is it?”

“A Hercules Mulligan.” Now Thomas watched Gilbert’s face to see how he’d react to this person. (So maybe Thomas was a little paranoid when it came to people. He’d spent a childhood observing his mother, and by the time he’d realised he shouldn’t have to go to so much effort to please her, it’d become a habit. And the psychology courses he’d taken for his job had helped his observation skills. As did the amount of Sherlock Holmes he’d read during his detective phase.) Gilbert’s face changed to read _oh shit_ as he hurriedly threw himself out of bed, stripping as fast as he could.

“He’s a friend,” Gilbert called as he hurriedly brushed his teeth and attempted to pull on jeans at the same time. It would’ve worked better if he’d been putting them on the right way. “He’s offered to give me a ride to the Washingtons’ house and I completely forgot.”

With that he grabbed a scrunchie – he claimed they were less likely to snap, and Thomas had to agree – and pulled back his hair. “Water the children for me,” he called as he exited the room.

‘The children’ were Gilbert’s houseplants. He’d started out with a present from their mother – and Thomas wasn’t going to comment on how she’d specifically gotten Gilbert a housewarming present and given him a gift voucher – and named it Georges. After his favourite professor, George Washington. (Gilbert had ignored his complaints on how creepy it was). They’d lived here for a few years now, and currently had a Martha (Martha Washington), Adrienne (some girl he’d left behind in France and still talked to…and here Thomas was not even managing to keep the friends he saw everyday), Alexander (after Hamilton, and this one was a cactus that couldn’t seem to die, despite Thomas’ best efforts to kill it), Margarita (after some girl from one of his classes), and so far, there had been five plants named Thomas. Gilbert had somehow managed to kill off every plant he named after Thomas, and at this point Thomas didn’t know what to think.

Thomas contemplated going back into the living room and completing his host duties (he could just _hear_ Hamilton’s sneering tone talking about him and his Southern sensibilities) but decided against it. Gilbert could do that.

He had to go to that godforsaken house and try a séance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The séance happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one @ppl who may be reading but the next update is longer so bear with me while I figure this out honestly it wasn't even supposed to be in chapters but then it went over 12k...

He picked up Angelica Schuyler on the way to the House. She was one of his work friends, close but in a different way to James; she was like an older sister to him, though God knew he already had plenty. He should probably reply to Elizabeth’s texts, actually…

“Thomas!” Angelica greeted him with a hug, an awkward one as they were both sitting in his car.

“Angelica!” He matched her tone. “You got the food, right? I have no idea what it’d want.”

She patted her handbag. “Yup.” Angelica’s bags may look small, but he had once seen her pull out the first three A Song of Ice and Fire books from it and had learnt to never underestimate them.

“Okay.” he blew out a breath, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Let’s do this.”

“You have a will, right?” she asked casually.

He rounded his gaze on her. “What the fuck? We aren’t going to _die_! It’s a friendly spirit.”

She shrugged and gave him a bright smile. He stared at her before turning back to the road. They travelled the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, with the occasional cursing from Thomas whenever there was an unqualified driver on the road.

As they pulled up to the front of the house, Angelica made a _huh_ noise. Thomas turned to her, raising an eyebrow in question. She shook her head slightly, before turning to get out of the car. “From the way you’ve ranted to me about this place, I had this mental image of it as some sort of haunted house.”

Thomas stared at her. “It _is_ a haunted house.”

“Yeah, but,” she made a dismissive hand gesture, “it looks like someplace I might’ve been tempted to live when I was looking for a house.”

“And what, exactly, did I say that made you think this place was full of cobwebs and bat nests?”

She hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder and waited while Thomas got a box from the back. “Mostly the expression of horror on your face.”

He frowned. “I was drunk every time I complained to you about this place.”

She patted his shoulder consolingly. “You’re a very expressive drunk.” She stepped inside first after he unlocked the door, and added before he could open his mouth, “Don’t worry, at least you aren’t an ugly crier.”

Thomas could swear he felt tremors as the house laughed at him. He shook his head in frustration. _The house laughed at him?_ Since when did he think of the house as a sentient entity?

Angelica was in the living room, standing in the middle with her hands on her hips in a classic Wonder Woman pose, surveying the room. “You know, you could brighten this place up with a few _fresh apples_.”

Thomas groaned. This new slogan of their agency was quickly becoming a meme, thanks to Angelica’s sister Peggy. She was always popping into the office, partly to see Angelica, partly to see her long-time boyfriend Aaron Burr, and partly, it seemed, to steal pens. “No more talk of apples. Let’s get this set up.”

They had consulted numerous websites and books before planning this séance out meticulously. While there were many sources that stated that no fewer than three should attempt it, there were also sources that claimed that having three or more would ‘disrupt the balance and cause unspeakable disasters’. So they’d left it at two.

Thomas would be the medium, as he had a connection with the poltergeist. They were conducting it in the living room (“Hah,” Angelica had cackled when he told her that it appeared mostly in the living room. “I love a ghost with a sense of irony.”), on the round coffee table that usually held their fresh apples.

Angelica set a croissant and plate of carrots in the centre of the table. Thomas looked at her in confusion, and she shrugged, picking up a carrot stick and biting into it. “Everyone loves carrots,” she told him. He wondered, not for the first time, whether bringing her instead of James had been a good idea.

He got out three candles he’d stolen from Gilbert the night before. (Gilbert had a thing for scented candles. He liked them lit around the bathroom while he bathed with rose petals in the bath. This had all begun after Thomas had shown him his first romance movie. Thomas regretted everything). Placing them around the food, he got out the lighter and lit them. A pleasant scent filled the air, and Angelica hummed in satisfaction.

“Damn, this is good shit,” she commented as she went around closing the shutters and turning off the lights. “Where’d you get them?”

“Gilbert,” Thomas answered distractedly. He was trying to turn off one of the lamps, but the poltergeist seemed insistent it stay on.

“What scent is this… ‘sex on the beach’? Really?” Angelica shook her head. “Let me tell you, that is _not_ what sex on the beach smells like.”

Thomas paused his attempts for a millisecond. “I’m not even going to ask.”

She came over. “Here, let me.” And deftly turned it off. Thomas stuck his middle finger up at it the moment she turned away. 

“Come on, I don’t have all day,” she called to him, already sitting on the floor cross-legged. He came over and sat opposite her, unexpectedly nervous, and took her outstretched hands. They were cool to the touch, and he had the sudden worry about clammy palms. 

“Wait.” Angelica placed a piece of paper beside the food, turned to the side so they could both read it. It had a creepy paragraph to summon the spirit.

They started reading together. “Our beloved,” Thomas choked and Angelica glared at him, “spirit, we bring you gifts of life into death. Commune with us, spirit, and move among us.”

Then they waited.

Just as Thomas was about to give up and recite the summon again, the lamp flickered. Angelica’s eyes widened, and Thomas could feel her suppress the urge to whoop.

“Uh,” he said hesitantly. “Can you talk? One flicker for yes, two for no.”

The lamp flickered three times.

“Great,” Thomas muttered. “My poltergeist thinks they’re funny.”

The lamp went berserk. It was almost as if…

“Wait,” Angelica suddenly said. “Is that Morse code?” She turned to Thomas. “We need to get one of our phones out and keep our hands linked. Mine’s in my pocket. Where’s yours?" 

“On the kitchen counter. We’ll get yours; it’d be too hard getting up without knocked something over.”

Which was how Thomas ended up trying to hold onto Angelica’s hand as she got her phone out of her minuscule pockets. “Okay,” she muttered, “where’s that Morse code translatey thingy…”

Until finally, “Got it!” and they both turned back to the lamp. “Do your thing, Caspar,” Angelica called. Thomas, at this point, had stopped trying to talk with the poltergeist; it listened much better to Angelica.

He called the dots and dashes as he saw them, and Angelica typed. It was an incredibly slow process. Then the lights stopped. “Okay, they said, ‘I’m not dead.’” They frowned.

“What do you mean, you’re not dead?” Thomas demanded. “You’re a ghost.”

There was a sound akin to a raspberry being blown, and the only thing stopping Thomas from reciprocating was the fact that Angelica was sitting right there.

“Okay, so are you just a psychic messing with Thomas?” she asked calmly. The lights translated to ‘No’.

“Who are you?” Angelica wasn’t deterred.

 _A friend_ , said the lights. Thomas rolled his eyes at the cryptic messages.

They kept this up for the better part of an hour, until Thomas could feel himself become lightheaded. Angelica frowned as he failed to answer her question for the second time. “For some reason, its draining you more than me,” she commented. “We’re ending this now. He isn’t going to tell us anything else.”

So far, they had gleaned that the spirit wasn’t a ghost – it wasn’t dead – and it was a male who went to Gilbert’s university. That was it. _The fruits of a day’s work_ , Thomas thought sourly.

“Sorry today was so disappointing,” he said to Angelica as he dropped her off in front of her place.

She laughed. “Thomas, that wasn’t even _remotely_ disappointing.” She kissed his cheek as she got out. 

He watched her go, and realised that while he felt a lot of things, it wasn’t disappointment, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jfc the amount of unnecessary googling I did just to see the age differences between Jefferson and all his siblings...
> 
> Interesting thing about the relationship with Jefferson and his mother is that we have very little evidence of one. (I think I spent more time researching the Jefferson family than I actually spent writing lol). He liked to document and keep everything (from letters to receipts), and there's literally nothing about her in anything of his, apart from a couple of mentions. This is taken to mean that he had a very =// relationship with her, which I'm completely rolling with.
> 
> The séance info in this is complete bs I looked at one source /after/ i wrote part of the scene and it was like NEVER HAVE A SÉANCE WITH LESS THAN 3 PPL but at that point I was too lazy to go back and include another character.
> 
> The 'sex on a beach' candle is based on this homemade candle I saw this one time someplace and iT SmeLLeD AmaZInG????
> 
> Thanks for reading =D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally see Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'm updating twice a week

The next few days were uneventful; Thomas sold a house and rented out another two, he was finally on top of his paperwork (new clients looking to invest were a pain in the arse), and he didn’t have to go back to The House for another day.

Thomas was at peace. Until Peggy Schuyler visited the office.

“Hi y’all!” a cheery voice called from the entrance, followed by a _slam!_ as the door closed forcefully behind the woman dressed in a bright yellow dress. Her hair alone had more personality than Thomas’ entire body.

She spotted him and made a beeline to his desk, arms occupied with two massive boxes of _Krispy Kreme._ “Thomas!” she called, flashing him a bright smile. “Angelica asked me to give you back this…”

She placed the boxes on his desk, and he didn’t dare steal any. Suddenly, there was a clatter and a handful of pens were dropped onto his desk. 

“Oh my God, Peggy,” he groaned, running his hands through his hair. “You have a problem. Half these aren’t even mine!”

“Hey, I only take what I need!” she defended, hands on her hips in a pose that was very obviously imitated from Angelica. “And I had a test last weekend.”

“You don’t need _fifty_ pens for a test!”

“What if they all run out?” she questioned him, eyes ablaze with a wildness he associated with Schuylers. “You wouldn’t want me to stab a vein and write in my blood, would you?”

He also associated dramatic exaggerations with them.

Sighing, he said, “Fine.” And then he swiftly opened a box and stole a donut, stuffing it into his mouth before she could protest. Growing up with so many siblings had its perks. “Compensation,” he told her while trying to simultaneously chew.

She poked her tongue out at him, and left. Probably to go see Burr. Thomas had no idea how those two were together, but they somehow clicked. He was a completely different person when she was around, warmer and softer around the edges. Hell, he had more of a personality when she was around. Even Angelica had admitted it. Apparently he’d stood up for her excessively this one time, and it’d made her warm up to him in an hour flat. 

Thomas picked out his pens before taking the remaining bundle to the office _Lost and Found_ box. They all knew now to go there every time Peggy visited. Normally he’d be ecstatic over seeing Peggy (and his beloved Purple Pen; he’d been looking _for a week_ ) but now her pen stealing habit just reminded him of Hamilton and their last fight.

 

* * *

 

He knew something was wrong as he walked into the apartment. There was a smell of…something strong…in the air, and it was right on the tip of Thomas’ tongue but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Gilbert?” he called out cautiously as he entered, dropping his bag onto the couch on his way in. He decided against grabbing a knife as he walked past the kitchen, and instead picked up a golf club from inside a closet left there for this exact purpose. He poked his head into every room on the way to Gilbert’s, arms tense and ready to swing.

He received a massive _whiff_ of the stench as he opened Gilbert’s door, and fought every instinct telling him to go back and get a nose mask. The room was dark, which was unusual; his brother preferred to have all the lights on, even going as far as lighting candles. The blinds were drawn, and Thomas could barely see. He fumbled against the wall for the light switch, and heard a groan when the lights came on.

“’Bear?” The childhood nickname came unwittingly as Thomas stepped inside, heading straight for the lump under the covers on the massive bed and dropping the golf club by his feet. He could see Gilbert’s hair sticking out from the sheets, but the rest of his body was indistinguishable from the pile of blankets covering him.

There was a muffled voice, and Thomas frowned. “I can’t understand you.” He couldn’t even tell what language it was.

“I am dying,” came Gilbert’s hoarse voice. There was some shuffling, and a hand came out of the mess, reaching towards the bedside table and patting around until it located glasses. There appeared to be what looked like half a pharmacy on there, along with an open container of Vick’s VapoRub. _That explains it_ , Thomas thought, hastily placing the lid back on it and moving it away from him. He’d never been able to stand the smell.

“You got sick in the time between last night and now?” Thomas asked incredulously. First James (whose health problems had health problems), and now Gilbert. At this rate, he’d either die from exposure, or develop the best immune system known to man.

“No, I’ve been sick all week, I just started dying this morning. The end is nigh upon us, I shall leave you my feather boa.” Gilbert could be dramatic when he or someone else was sick. One time when they were seven and eight, Thomas had had a slight cough and it had taken their mother an hour near bedtime to convince Gilbert that Thomas would still be alive when he woke up. “Give me that,” he waved his arm around, “<span title="orange pill">comprimé orange</span>.”

Thomas complied, and handed him a glass of water with the pill. He wrinkled his nose at the label. “Dude. This thing is for children.”

“Yes, and that is why it tastes so good.”

“But…it isn’t even medicine…” 

Gilbert shrugged. “The doctor told me to keep up my body’s vitamin C levels.”

There was a brief pause in which Thomas processed the fact that his brother was chewing on tablets that were designed for children, to convince them to take their vitamins without parents getting into an argument every time.

“So…?” he prompted.

 Gilbert gave him a look, as if to say _what?_  

“What’s wrong and are you contagious? Because if you are, I’ll get the stick out.” They used the stick to propel the food tray into rooms when one of them was contagious. It had varying rates of success. 

“Just the flu. And I’m not contagious.” Gilbert yawned halfway through his sentence, and Thomas took this as his cue to leave.

“I’ll wake you up for dinner,” he said. “Tell me if you–” 

“Wait.” Gilbert sat up, grabbing Thomas’ arm in a vice grip. “Wake me in an hour. I need to check on Alexander.”

“’Bear, you can’t go checking in on someone who’s sick while you’re sick.”

“Stop calling me that. And I have to,” Gilbert’s eyes were wild and frantic, “you don’t understand, I _need_ to see him.” He grabbed the hem of Thomas’ shirt, keeping him in place.

“I’m sure if you called that nurse of his, he’ll tell you everything—”

“No! I can’t miss a day! He’d be dead if I hadn’t gone to see him the first time. I need to make sure he’s alright.” Gilbert stared at him pleadingly, his eyes massive and fever-bright behind his glasses.

Thomas sighed. “How about if I go check up on him?”

Gilbert blinked in surprise. “You would do that? You hate him.”

Thomas shifted around on his knees. He’d crouched down at some point, and now the pins and needles were killing him. “I don’t _hate_ him. And it’s hard to even dislike a guy in a coma.”

Gilbert jumped forward, grabbing him in a tight hug. Thomas could feel the uncomfortable heat from his body as he hugged back gingerly, and reminded himself to hide some of the blankets and socks. “<span title="Thank you">Merci</span>.”

He left Gilbert half asleep, and closed the bedroom door behind him as he exited quietly. What had he gotten himself into now?

 

* * *

 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Peggy. It’s Thomas.”

“Oh, I’m not Peggy. This is her sister, Eliza.”

“Is Peggy there?”

“No, she’s –” a pause - “busy. She left her phone with me.”

A sigh. “Do you happen to know the address to the Washingtons’ house?” 

A beat. Then, “Why do you want their address?”

“My brother’s friends with their son, Alexander Hamilton, and he’s sick so I told him I’d visit Hamilton for him.”

“Wait…is your brother Lafayette? Are you Thomas Jefferson?”

How did his brother know _everyone_? “Yeah.”

“I’m heading there in a bit, actually. Would you like a lift?”

“Um, that’d be great. Thanks.”

“Cool. Text me your address." 

“Will do. Thanks again, Eliza.”

 

* * *

 

Eliza kept glancing at Thomas as she drove, smiling in a Mona Lisa way that made him feel as though he had something on his face that only she could see. He was curious about this Schuyler sister, her being the only one he wasn’t close to. Or having even met. She was softer than the other two, and there was something about her that made Thomas feel instantly at ease, but this, in turn, made him nervous so he had no idea how to feel about this girl. 

Her clothing was far more moderate than both Peggy and Angelica’s; while Peggy enjoyed dressing in bright patterns and flower crowns, and Angelica liked sharp edges and clothes that made her look like she was about to walk into an interview, Eliza looked more like a typical student: her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she was wearing a skirt with deep pockets and a hoodie.

“So,” she said. “Alex talks about you a lot.” Her eyes turned to him for a second, and they were filled with laughter. Thomas could guess, from that one comment, exactly the type of things Hamilton had said about him.

“Anything he said is biased and wrong,” he said immediately. From Eliza’s laughter, it seemed that he’d been right.

“Alex _is_ a bit opinionated,” she agreed. “But we’ve all learnt to tune him out the moment he says your name.”

Wait…so how often did Hamilton talk about him? 

Eliza was still talking. “…and besides, I have enough dirt on you anyway from Peggy and Angelica.”

He had no idea what ‘dirt’ Peggy and Angelica had on him. He probably didn’t want to know. Ever. There was a brief pause in the conversation, which Thomas wanted to fill immediately. “So, um,” he began with a glance in her direction. Her body language was open and inviting, nothing like anyone he’d ever met. _Really says something about the people I hang with._ “You go to the same place as Hamilton and Gilbert? Thought about life after graduation?”

“It’s weird hearing him being called ‘Gilbert’,” she said, smiling wider. Thomas’ cheeks hurt just from looking at her. “But yes, we go to the same uni. And I’m looking to become a teacher after I graduate,” she continued. “Probably primary school, I wouldn’t be able to handle the stress of high school kids very well. And I work with a lot of younger children in the orphanage.” 

Thomas could see her as a teacher. She had a calming yet commanding nature, and possessed the exclusive Schuyler Stare. Yes, Thomas had no doubt she would go far in life.

But of course, he didn’t say any of this. “You work at an orphanage?” he asked instead. 

“Yeah, Graham Windham. I volunteer there.” Her face changed completely when she talked of the orphanage and the kids, becoming brighter and more animated. Thomas zoned out multiple times while trying to read her face. “…and there’s this one kid, Philip, who’s an absolute sweetheart. He’s nine, and I think he has a crush on this girl, Theo. She was telling me about how he stood up to this bully from school for her, actually, even broke his arm over it…”

Thomas was so engaged in the conversation – Eliza could really tell a story – that he didn’t even notice them pulling up in front of a massive three-story house. He swallowed down his nerves and went to open the door.

A hand suddenly grabbed his elbow, and he looked around, startled. “Wait,” Eliza said.

He sat back down, looking at her questioningly. If she had something to say to him, why leave it till now?

“I know you know the Washingtons, but they’re constantly on edge with this whole thing going on,” she began, her fidgeting hands in her lap being the only thing that gave away her discomfort. “And I like you, but you’re quick to confrontation and have no filter most of the time…Angelica’s words, not mine, let me finish talking…so be careful what comes out of your mouth.” With that, she released his arm and got out of the car.

After a moment, he followed.

 

* * *

 

The Washingtons’ home wasn’t nearly as fancy on the inside as it seemed from the outside. Thomas couldn’t help comparing it to the cool interior of his childhood home, which was aesthetically pleasing but rather _detached_. This house had the feeling of being lived in. There were books strewn about all over the place, even though there were bookshelves lining the walls. The picture frames on the walls were mostly of people, with the occasional painting here and there. But the real surprise were the animals Thomas spotted. 

Eliza saw his gaze. “That’s Madame Moose,” she pointed to a Dalmatian, watching them curiously, “and that’s Snipe,” she nodded towards a green parrot perched on a chair.

“Can the parrot talk?” Thomas asked. He’d always wanted a bird. 

Just as Eliza opened her mouth, a door down the hall opened and a figure stepped out into the dark hallway, heading towards them. Eliza met him halfway. “John,” she greeted before embracing him.

Thomas followed behind, observing. So this was the nurse Gilbert was smitten with. He had curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and more freckles than Thomas knew one person could possess. He had a friendly face, but Thomas didn’t trust appearances. And besides, he had to see if this guy deserved Gilbert.

“Oh!” Eliza suddenly remembered Thomas was there. “John, this is Thomas Jefferson, Laf’s brother.”

“Hi.” John held out his hand and Thomas shook it, feeling oddly formal. “You came to see Alex?”

“Yeah, Gilbert wouldn’t rest till I promised I’d check up on him.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day hit. He heard the creak of a door and saw Eliza disappear inside. “Is he…?” 

John nodded, and gestured for him to go inside. Thomas entered.

The room was set up like a hospital room, with a bed – double, not single – in the centre. It was surrounded by numerous machines, most of which were hooked up to the patient lying on the bed. It felt surreal, even more so by the bright yellow bumblebee curtains on the window and the vase of colourful flowers on the bedside table. There were no balloons or the typical pile of cards and presents from well-wishers that one saw in movies, but this made sense: Hamilton had been like this for weeks, and besides, this was his home. It’d just feel more foreign with them there.

Thomas approached the figure on the bed. Eliza was already sitting in a chair beside him, holding his hand and murmuring quietly. He caught snatches of the one-sided conversation: “…and he rapped the most…loved it! He can…when you wake up…must meet her…like Maria?”

John came to stand by his side. “She’s here at least five times a week,” he murmured quietly, affection clear in his voice. “Actually, most of them are.” 

“’Them’?”

“Yeah, Alex’s friends. George and Martha are here when they can, but they’re busy people and the world doesn’t get put on hold when something like this happens. His group keeps him company.” At Thomas’ questioning glance, he continued, “Herc comes along in the mornings, usually after Laf gets here so he can give him a ride to school. And Peggy’s here with Eliza a lot, but she likes spending the night. There are cots in the closet she and Laf use when they sleep over, but half the time I find them in the chair…” His voice trailed off.

Thomas felt like an outsider here. They were obviously a tight group, and he could feel the tension in the room. They weren’t mourning, they were waiting. What was he doing here?

“How is he?” he asked. He wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He didn’t belong here. Hell, there was even a chance Hamilton would wake up just to tell him so.

John shrugged. “He’s the same, really. We’re not entirely sure why he’s still in a coma, because his body’s healing at a nice pace. But he isn’t brain dead, either, so the only thing we can do is give him time till he decides to wake up.”

Thomas let out a breath, watching as Eliza discretely wiped her cheeks and walked over to them. He walked towards Hamilton so she would have some privacy with John, and sat in the chair. He avoided looking at Hamilton’s face, gazing at his hand instead.

There was an IV line inserted into his arm, secured in place by tape. He was wearing a plain short-sleeved shirt, so the veins on his arms were visible and prominent against the lighter skin of his inner arm. Thomas focused on his hands. He’d always felt more drawn to Hamilton’s hands more than any other part of his body; they were always in motion, creating and erasing whatever Hamilton wanted. If this was some sort of fantasy world they lived in, they would be his magical outlets.

Thomas didn’t dare touch Hamilton’s hands, even though a part of him wanted to. He looked up at Hamilton’s face, and felt a deep sense of unease strike him in the pit of his stomach.

His face was gaunt and more skeletal than Thomas remembered, with his skin pale and washed out. The circles under his eyes were gone, though, taking years off his face. His hair was spread neatly around his face, lank and limp. Thomas could hear him breathing slightly, and it would be like he was sleeping if not for the unsettling stillness of the body. Hamilton was never still and everything about this figure on the bed screamed _wrong_.

He couldn’t help himself; he gently took Hamilton’s hand, sandwiching it between his own and shivering slightly at how cold it was. He was glad the monitors were there displaying his heart rate. Some part of him fully expected Hamilton to jerk upright and begin yelling at him until he went purple in the face, but nothing changed. Thomas could hear the hitch in his own breathing as he continued to look at normally exuberant man before him, and cursed at himself angrily. Who was he to feel like this? He was no one. He and Hamilton were barely even enemies now that Thomas hardly ever saw him.

He placed the hand back onto the bed and stood up. Eliza was gone, but John was leaning against the desk on the other end of the room noting something down on a clipboard. It all looked very professional, but Thomas could see he was distracted. He went over to him.

“Did Eliza…?” 

“She went to see Martha and George. Something about meatloaf.” John cleared his throat, eyes flitting to Thomas and away again. “Is Laf okay?”

Thomas should’ve expected this. “He’s sick, but still well enough to whine about it so he’ll be fine.” He moved to stand next to John, making the lack of eye contact they had less awkward.

John nodded, looking down at the clipboard in his hands. “I kept telling him to take a break, but he’s so fucking stubborn.” His tone was fondly exasperated, and Thomas fought the urge to gag at the expression on his face. This kid was smitten, too, apparently. Well. He’d have to do something about these two, then. Couldn’t have Gilbert pining away and complaining to him if he could avoid it this easily. 

“He’s worried about him.” Thomas jerked his head toward Hamilton, crossing his arms. “And now he’s paranoid about literally everyone else. I fell asleep on the kitchen table the other day and he freaked.” Honestly, if Hamilton could just wake the fuck up, they could finally put this past them and these people could move on from the stasis they were living in. 

John nodded, smiling slightly. “Well, he’s fun to have around. Makes the mood in the room brighter. And George and Martha are happier with him here.”

Thomas had no idea how they’d gotten to this topic of conversation. What happened to discussing the patient? Instead they were carefully skirting around the elephant in the room: the crush John very obviously had on Gilbert. How could Gilbert even think he didn’t like him?

He’d have to formulate a plan of attack with Angelica. She was best at this. And maybe after Hamilton— 

A tap on his elbow shook him from his matchmaking.

Eliza stood in front of him, and was peering at his face with a small frown. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Zoned out a little.” He gave her a quick smile.

“Are you done? I need to head off soon, but if you wanted to stay longer—”

“No, I’m done too. I need to be getting back home now, anyway.” He checked the time on his phone, and saw that a fair few hours had passed since he’d left. He definitely needed to be getting back.

 

* * *

 

Once again, Eliza stopped Thomas getting out of the car when they arrived at his apartment. She reached into the backseat and grabbed a plastic bag with some lumpy object in it, and handed it to him.

He knew what this was. He knew exactly what this was. One day, he would put an end to all this…

“It’s for Laf,” she said, completely unnecessarily. “I heard how he killed off the lily, so this is to replace it.”

“Wait, the lily? It was definitely the lily?”

Eliza gave him a weird look, like _you share an apartment._ Who paid attention to houseplants? “Yeah, definitely the lily. He was in denial for about a week till we took it to a nursery and they confirmed it.”

He couldn’t believe it. Gilbert had killed the _fifth_ Thomas plant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laf's nickname is 'Bear' because I always see it as 'Gil' and it bothers me because it lowkey doesn't work with the French pronunciation.
> 
> Everything I know about hospital rooms is from watching numerous TV shows. Especially Supernatural...you can really see the evolution of hospitals in the 12 years...(lol the curtains were inspired by Cas btw)
> 
> And while it is *technically* possible to be put into a coma because of carbon monoxide exposure, the chances and circumstances are highkey unlikely (but we'll keep pretending this stuff works for the sake of not constantly screaming at the unrealistic aspects).
> 
> Graham Windham was originally called 'The Orphan Asylum Society of the City of New York' until it was changed to 'The Graham Home for Children' and then changed again (they merged a bunch of other organisations with it which caused the name changes). Eliza founded it with Isabella Graham, her daughter Johanna Bethune, and a bunch of other women in March, 1806, and at first it was this two-story house in Greenwich Village that could only hold 16 kids. Eliza became director in 1821 and was involved till her 90s.
> 
> Washington had a lot of dogs in his life, most of them for hunting and stuff. (He also drowned some mixed breed puppies, which was a pretty common thing at the time, but I my respect for him /dropped/ when I read about it. Guess we should stop embellishing his elegance and eloquence in this fandom and start looking at him like a human. Don't even get me started on the thing with his teeth...) 
> 
> Also, Martha really had a parrot called Snipe, and another one too, from what I can remember. You know the one thing she didn't have? A tomcat named after Ham. Apparently that whole thing was a joke/rumour that was spread possibly by John Adams, and originated in some letter by a soldier. (Which Lin knew btw; he mentioned it in Hamilton: the Revolution but I'm too lazy to get up and find a direct quote rn lol)
> 
> Jefferson also had a bird. His was a mockingbird called Dick, and he /really/ liked birds. In this one letter, he wrote: "Teach all the children to venerate [the mockingbird] as a superior being which will haunt them if any harm is done to itself or its eggs." He and Dick had a gr8 relationship: they'd do duets together (TJeffs on the violin and Dick with their birdly voice), he'd sometimes put food between his lips and Dick would eat it, he'd sometimes leave Dick's cage open and allow them to fly around the study...
> 
> That's it for the history lesson lol. Thanks for reading and pls comment and kudos xD


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I've had this thing written up for like a month it's such a relief finally posting it

Thomas could hear the TV when he entered. He smiled slightly; he didn’t want to walk into another situation like last time. He walked straight to the living room, where he could see Gilbert’s legs sticking out over the handle of the sofa. They were both too tall to lie on the couch but that didn’t stop them from trying.

“Are you watching _House Hunters_?!” he asked incredulously, dropping his satchel onto the kitchen counter and making his way to the couch.

“It’s entertaining,” came the croaky reply from the mound of blankets piled on the couch. Thomas’ mind suddenly provided him with the mental image of a blanket blob sliding from Gilbert’s room to the couch.

“The agents aren’t even good! Even Lee could do better,” Thomas argued, appalled at his brother’s lack of respect to his career.

Gilbert made a dismissing noise, shifting around to lie on his back and looked up at Thomas, squinting slightly. “How’s Alexander?”

“The same,” Thomas replied, “John says he’ll wake up when he wants to.”

Gilbert sighed, relaxing slightly. While this wasn’t good news, it wasn’t bad, either. They would take what they could get.

After a moment of gazing mindlessly at the screen, Thomas remembered the plant. “By the way, Eliza gave me this for you,” he said, grabbing the plastic bag from where he’d placed it by his feet and lowering it down in front of Gilbert. (He wanted to drop it onto him, but it’d be his job to clean up the mess later and it honestly wasn’t worth it.)

Gilbert propped himself up onto his elbows, opening the bag curiously. His face widened into the grin as he brought out the plant, and Thomas felt resignation at the thought of witnessing yet another naming ceremony. “I only told her about Thomas the Fifth yesterday!” He shoved the plant towards Thomas, who instictively grabbed onto it, as he got out of the coccoon he’d made. “We must name it tonight!”

Thomas rubbed at his face. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but if they didn’t do this now it’d be in the morning, after Gilbert had invited all their neighbours (granted, only one of them actually showed up), and Thomas was not about that hosting-guests-in-the-morning life. “Fine.”

A flurry of movement and a stubbed toe later, he was sitting on the balcony wrapped in a blanket with a cinnamon scented candle lit in front of him. The rest of the house plants were lined up on the side, arranged by some sort of extravagant system that Gilbert had concocted; from left to right stood Margarita, Alexander, Georges, Adrienne, and Martha. Their flowerpots were decorated with their names, and a stack of empty flowerpots stood in a corner of the balcony. Gilbert never reused a flowerpot, claiming that _it’d be like living in another’s coffin_. Thomas found everything about this ridiculous.

Gilbert came out, wrapped in what appeared to be all the blankets they owned, minus the one Thomas was using – it was cold enough that they could see their breath in the air. Thomas made sure to grab the candle and move it away while Gilbert repositioned himself to crouch in front of the plants with reverence.

“...je vous nommerai  Thomas the Sixth!” Gilbert announced, before breaking into a coughing fit. Thomas handed him a cup of water from beside him resignedly, hoping he wouldn’t get sicker because of this outing. For some reason, his brother found the idea of having the ceremony indoors preposterous, even after Thomas pointing out that they were all _indoor_ plants. “These are your new family…” He could now safely zone out as Gilbert introduced the plant to each of its ‘siblings’ and ‘deceased siblings’ until he got around to him.

“Welcome to the family, Thomas the Sixth,” he said tonelessly as Gilbert handed him his namesake. “I hope you survive longer mmph—”

His voice was cut off as Gilbert slammed his hand over his mouth, glaring at him. “Don’t scare them! It’s their first night!”

Thomas blinked. This was new. “Sorry… But you do have a penchant for killing off every plant you name after me. And besides,” he continued, “you shouldn’t hide the skeletons in your closet from your ‘adopted kids’.” He smiled uneasily, trying to defuse the weird atmosphere. 

Gilbert swallowed hard, hunching into the blankets. _Shit_. Thomas had apparently fucked up somewhere. “I – I don’t – it just keeps – they just _die_ and I’m trying to – I want them to feel as appreciated as  comme votre famille m’a fait sentir – but _they keep dying_ and I can’t _keep them alive_ –”

Thomas shrugged out of the blanket and hesitantly leaned forward to grab Gilbert in a hug. He wasn’t good at showing physical affection – or even verbal; he preferred to write his feelings down – but Gilbert was a very touchy-feely person who would seek out comfort from others when he was upset. 

He cleared his throat before he started talking, hoping his brain would come up with something appropriate for the situation. “’Bear, it isn’t your fault the Thomas plants keep dying. We’ll make this one work, okay? We’ll research and actually water it regularly and…and get someone to plant-sit them…” Thomas’ voice trailed off, and he took in a shallow breath as he wracked his brain to find more solutions to this. Why was he so useless? What was the point of his intelligence if it couldn’t help him now?

He tightened his arms, changing position slightly to avoid the candle, and moved his hands up to fiddle with the ends of Gilbert’s hair to give them something to do. Thomas felt Gilbert stiffen slightly, but didn’t relax his grip.

“Désolé,” he heard Gilbert mutter from where his face was buried. “This was meant to be a happier event.”

Thomas was torn between a lighthearted answer and being serious. “You don't need to apologise,” he murmured, chewing on his lip slightly. “And for what it’s worth, I think your plants are happy with their adopted family.”

Gilbert huffed out a breath, body finally relaxing.

 

* * *

 

Thomas needed three cups of coffee before he felt energetic enough to deal with clients the next morning. He and Gilbert had a very strict routine worked out: Thomas would wake up early and make sure there was enough coffee for them to have two massive mugs each. Gilbert would wake up half an hour before he had to leave for his eight-thirty class, and prepare breakfast. It was lucky Thomas worked nine-to-five hours. Before this arrangement, at least one of them would turn up to their respective buildings and smell faintly of smoke. Gilbert blamed Thomas, and Thomas could do nothing to disprove these accusations.

This morning, he woke to the sound of the coffee machine running, and felt a faint sense of confusion. Glancing to his right, he saw that his alarm still hadn’t gone off, and he would’ve gone back to sleep if it weren’t for the concern that someone had broken into their apartment to make coffee.

Hamilton had done that once...

Walking out in sock-clad feet, he peered into the kitchen with bleary eyes, his eyesight made worse by the fact that he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He could see the blob of fluoro green that he associated with Gilbert’s pyjamas – apparently some friend had given them to his as a joke – and felt his confusion rise.

“Gilbert?” he asked cautiously, stifling a yawn. He saw the blob jump slightly and smirked inwardly (it was too early to move his face).

“I thought you were asleep!” Gilbert exclaimed. Thomas felt tired just looking at him.

“Why’re you awake? It’s like,” a glance at the clock, “I don’t what time it is, I can’t see the clock.” He walked over to one of their stools by the kitchen counter and collapsed into it dramatically. 

“I woke up and couldn’t go to sleep, so I thought I’d bake!” 

What had Gilbert taken that’d made him this hyper? He was usually as bad as Thomas. “Wait…baking?”

“Yes!” Gilbert waved a spatula in the air. “French toast!”

Thomas stared at him. “That’s…not…baking…”

“Yes it is!” he replied dismissively. “I baked the bread.”

“What.”

“I baked the bread for the French toast, so therefore it’s baking.”

“Dude, how long have you been up?”

Gilbert shrugged, a massive grin on his face. Thomas only knew he was grinning because the giant faceless blob suddenly had a flash of white in the centre. “I want coffee,” he whined. A moment later, a mug was placed before him, and he chugged down its contents in a few seconds, fast enough to ignore the scalding sensation on his tongue until after finishing.

Gilbert looked at him distastefully. For some reason, he believed that coffee puritans like Thomas were “missing out on the finer aspects of life”. It wasn’t as thought Thomas _only_ drank black sugarless coffee – he enjoyed strange sugary concoctions too. He just preferred to have a direct hit to his soul every morning.

Finally feeling like he was alive, Thomas blinked up at Gilbert. “You’re…sparkly,” he said hesitantly. Could this day get any more bewildering?

He found a pair of his glasses on the kitchen counter – he had like three pairs and found that leaving them around the house reduced the amount of walking he had to do daily. Putting them on, he looked back at Gilbert. Who had his hair held back in a ponytail with a massive glittery scrunchie. “Is that mine?”

“No.” Gilbert avoided eye contact, going back to the French toast.

“Dude, I thought I lost that one! It was my favourite!”

Gilbert shrugged. “You left it in my room. It’s mine now.”

Thomas made a face at him. Honestly, he should kill off a plant for this – wait, no. He couldn’t kill off any plants intentionally, not after that conversation the previous night. Which reminded him…

“Hey, about last night,” he began. Gilbert’s body tensed from behind, and he continued hastily, “I talked to your John.”

“He isn’t ‘my John’,” Gilbert muttered, getting out plates and stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth as he divided the rest onto the two.  

“Well, he wants to be.”

Gilbert almost choked. “What? He said this?”

“Well, no,” Thomas admitted, “But it was pretty obvious.”

Gilbert glared at him and stole a piece off his plate. At Thomas’ indignation, he said, “For the heart attack I just had.”

“Everyone can see it!”

“He thinks of me as a friend. And he probably likes Herc…he keeps complimenting his arms.” Gilbert’s voice had taken on a wailing tone.

Thomas didn’t have enough every to deal with this alone. Pulling out his phone, he opened up Snapchat and began recording.

“…and he probably likes James; they talk whenever he’s over…"

Sent to Peggy, Angelica, and James. He should probably get Eliza’s Snapchat…

A reply came immediately. He opened up Angelica’s to see a close-up photo of Eliza and Peggy, the caption reading _we ship them so hard!!!_

Thomas fought to keep his facial expression neutral. Going back to recording, he cut in, “He asked about you,” interrupting Gilbert’s rant.

“That’s because he’s the best person in the world! He volunteers at the same orphanage as Eliza, did I tell you, and…”

This time a response came from Peggy:

_Angelica stole her phone back_

_Also we should totally plot to lock them into a closet together <3_

And one from James: _Bro I’ve been trying to nudge them into each other every time we walk down a flight of stairs._  

Thomas’ eyebrows shot up, and he typed to James: _tHaT’S DaNGerOUs_  

James replied: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

That little shit.

Gilbert was asking him something and he quickly said “yeah” without fully registering the question. Because now Angelica was spamming him with texts, making his phone constantly buzz. He glanced over at Gilbert, to see if he’d noticed, but his brother was currently holding a piece of toast delicately in his hand as he gestured wildly with the other, spraying crumbs everywhere. Thomas caught the tail end of his tirade: “…and fluffy?”

There was no way he would notice anything. He opened up the texts. The most recent one read: LUNCH. TMRW. MY PLACE. DON’T BE LATE.

He typed back a quick _okay_ just as he realised Gilbert was trying to get his attention.

“What?” He blinked up blankly.

“I said,” Gilbert took a bite. “Herc is coming over soon.”

Thomas nodded. “Cool. I’ll be leaving in…shit.” He was running five minutes behind. He stuffed the remaining toast into his mouth, hastily washed and dried his hands, and opened the door just as Hercules arrived, a beautifully embroidered satchel on his shoulder brimming with what Thomas assumed were class notes and assignments. Nodding a greeting, Thomas quickly brushed past and exited. As his hand touched the satchel slightly, he could've sworn it moved...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> je vous nommerai Thomas the Sixth = I name you Thomas the Sixth  
> comme votre famille m’a fait sentir = as your family made me feel  
> Désolé = Sorry
> 
> I have used the word 'blanket' 12 times in this fic so far I should rly try looking for an alternative (I'm completely open to suggestions oml)
> 
> Section 2 paragraph 17 is a call out to my awesome beta [Lesty](archiveofourown.org/users/Lesty), who's Thomas in this situation.
> 
> Lol anyone wanna guess at what Herc has in his bag? (I mean, I won't tell you if you're right but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)
> 
> I'll probably post the next chapter sometime in the next 1-2 weeks, depending on assignment load rip ;~;
> 
> Thanks for reading =D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has an unpleasant client

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this fic after march 2017 then you can ignore this note =)
> 
> @everyone who's just gotten a notification that I've uploaded a chapter 5 in a 20+ chapter fic, I'm so sorry,,, I'd been going off on the assumption that I'd uploaded this when I wrote it bUT ApPArENTlY I DidNT???? And I have no idea how that happened like did I accidentally delete it??? who knows. Anyway, this should still make sense irregardless of where you're at in the fic so you don't have to reread anything in order to understand the context of this. Thomas literally just has a snob client.

He pulled up in front of the first house he planned on showing off to his client: a two-story thing of beauty, modern in all the necessary places while keeping with traditional looks in terms of his roof design and the pillars framing the doorway. Thomas personally hated the box-like aesthetic “modern” architects seemed to be going for, but he knew a lot of buyers liked it because of the newness of the look.

Thomas wandered inside the house, placing newly bought apple in fruit bowls and other picturesque locations. He refrained from the urge to bite into one – he’d been to dead to the world to care about breakfast. 

The interior of the houses was prepared by their interior design team, which consisted of Angelica, Aaron, James Monroe, and a few others. He’d honestly been surprised when he’d found out Aaron was the head – the man could barely pick a bouquet for Peggy, how did anyone expect him to be able to decorate a house? But he was surprisingly good at it, his designs being artistic and different. And it seemed that Peggy’s impish personality was rubbing off on him, because he snuck in various inside memes wherever he could.

A _ting_ on his phone alerted him to his client’s arrival. He’d arrived at the exact time set, down to the second, which made Thomas slightly wary. This guy wasn’t messing around.

 

* * *

 

“…dining room and kitchen are joined together, but there’s a sliding door you can use to separate the two—”

“Oh, _goodness no!_ ” Thomas refrained from snapping at Mr Prevost. Even if this was the fifth time he’d been interrupted like this.

Instead, he turned around with a questioning smile on his face. “Is there a problem?” With this guy, there was always a problem. 

“Where to start,” the man began with a dismissive shake of his head. “This area is _tiny_! Even with the sliding doors open – and don’t get me started on them. It is the cheapest way of creating a sense of privacy and very obviously a later addition to the whole thing. It doesn’t even match the rest of the house!” 

“Sir,” Thomas said. “I’m guessing from your observations you have no interest in this house. Would you like for us to move on to the second one on our list?” 

The man gave a sharp nod in Thomas’ direction, and walked out, the heels of his Italian shoes making sharp noises against the tiled flooring.

Thomas wanted to throw himself or his client off the mountain this house was built on.

 

* * *

 

“Is this meant to be a bedroom? What exactly is supposed to fit in here, Stuart Little’s bed?”

“Mr Prevost—” 

“Please, call me Marcus.”

“Marcus, I agree with you that this room looks small—”

“Really? You were doing a damn fine pitch about it—”

 _Yes, Marcus, that’s my job._ “—but it’s the average size of bedrooms, and you’ll find that once you start bringing in furniture, it’ll feel bigger.”

“Isn’t that part of your job?”

“Pardon?”

“If you know the room appears the size it should be with furniture, isn’t it your job to fill it with furniture?”

“We furnish the houses we build and own, but houses like this we’re just representing.”

“And the owner felt it fit to strip it down to its knickers?”

 _Don’t punch him, don’t punch him…_ “The owner actually never inhabited the house—”

“What, too high and mighty for this dump?”

“Would you like to look at the next house?” _You can punch him if there are no witnesses and you have James for backup…_

  

* * *

 

They were at the third house – _and the last_ , Thomas thought with relief – and Marcus Prevost showed no satisfaction with anything. Thomas didn’t even have concrete knowledge of what he was looking for. This man, with his posh British accent, was the biggest idiot Thomas had ever had the misfortune of being acquainted with. It wouldn’t even be worth the money he’d need to hire a hitman…

He stopped his car in front of a small townhouse. He liked this one; it had cute trimmings that gave it a cottage feel, and there was even a fireplace – now sealed and longer usable. They had furnished the house to further emphasise the cottage-ness of it: a round table in the dining room, with a checkered blue and white tablecloth and a vase of hydrangea sitting in the centre. The beds were wooden, and the ones in the bedrooms had tiny drawings carved into them. Thomas’ favourite was the sheep, but his opinion was rather biased because of his eternal obsession with the animal. The yard was massive – big enough to comfortably play a game of soccer, and they hadn’t done much beyond tending to the rosebushes by the garden beds bordering the walls of the house.

Prevost, unsurprisingly, hated everything. “Who lives here?” he snorted. “Snow White? Red Riding Hood?” He turned to Thomas, lips pursed slightly. “Man, if I’d wanted to live in a farmhouse I wouldn’t have moved to the city. What else is on the list?”

Thomas faked a smile, wanting nothing more than to finally ditch what was possibly the nastiest client he’d ever had. “This was actually the last house, Marcus.” He took careful measures to not give away the absolute relief he felt at this thought.

“What do you mean, this is the last house?” Prevost spun sharply, his shoes leaving a mark on the floor. Thomas winced inwardly. God, he hated snobbish people. (A voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Angelica said,  _aren't you one, yourself?_ But he ignored it with an insulted sniff.)

“This is the last house on our list,” he said, clearly enunciating every word like he was speaking to a child while maintaining a friendly demeanour. He wished he’d worn his red and purple suit today; according to James, it reeked of confidence and arrogance so much the wearer only needed good posture to pull it off.

Prevost was shaking his head. “No, I remember seeing another house.” He waved his hand at Thomas impatiently, gesturing for him to hand over his clipboard. Like Thomas would ever do that.

Instead, he made a show of looking at his clipboard. “Well, there’s another house we have nearby. But it suits none of the,” _completely contradicting and confusing,_ “criteria you provided. Are you sure you want to look at it?”

Prevost shrugged, hands in his pocket. He stood with his shoulders back, and Thomas could see his shirt straining against the size of his gut. Lazily, he lifted his left arm up to glance at this watch – it appeared to be an overly pricey piece made by some big company which had no purpose for its existence other than to showcase wealth – and said, “I’ve got time.” 

So Thomas gave him the address to the House and got into his car.

  

* * *

 

Thomas opened the door, and ushered Prevost inside. He hadn’t had time to prepare it, so there would be no fresh apples or towels around. Honestly, he probably wouldn’t’ve even provided this prick with a towel if there had been an incident anyway, so perhaps this was lucky.

The man entered the house with an air of disdain, and Thomas felt his hackles rise slightly. This was the longest he’d ever had a house, and he couldn’t help having grown attached to it a bit, despite the haunting and the number of headaches this place had caused. Maybe even because of it. 

He tried to look at the house through a newcomer’s eyes: the curtains were a soft shade of lavender, complementing the gentle nature of the architecture and the Cherry Bronze wood of the flooring. They didn’t know this, but sunset made the flooring _glow_.

“This is the kitchen,” Thomas announced as they moved on from the living room. Nothing had happened _yet_ but he was still alert. And maybe some part of him of him wanted the not-ghost to get him. “You can see that the benchtop is marble, not laminated…”

Prevost hadn’t said anything yet. Thomas didn’t know what to think.

He led him upstairs.

“This is the master bedroom.” Thomas opened the door, gesturing inside as Prevost entered. He observed the massive four poster bed – also timber – and the lavender coloured feature wall behind it. There was a TV on the wall opposite the bed, with a glazed white TV unit beneath it. Various books were placed on it, along with a few DVDs and a cactus. Thomas hadn’t managed to kill this one off either, yet, but according to literally everyone, it was almost impossible to kill a cactus. There was an en suite attached to the room, with a decent sized spa in place of a shower, which Thomas personally found distasteful.

He snapped out of his thoughts when he saw Prevost nodding. “This is decent,” the man commented flippantly, pulling his phone out to take photos.

Thomas felt a sense of unease in the pits of his stomach, and couldn’t make sense of it. This was what he’d wanted since he’d gotten the house, wasn’t it? So what if the house was going to this dick? At least he’d be the one stuck with the poltergeist.

Suddenly, a lightbulb overhead shattered.

_What the fuck?_

Due to the lightshade, the broken glass was contained, but Thomas still ushered Prevost out of the room. He was spluttering, “…wasn’t even turned on! What sort of second-rate lightbulbs are you people using?!” but Thomas payed no heed to his accusatory tone. His mind was buzzing, with something akin to adrenaline flooding his veins. His ghost was back.

His smile suddenly felt a hint more real.

“I’m sorry for that,” he quickly apologised to his client, slipping on his ‘businessman voice’. “I’ll get our people to look into it.”

Prevost huffed out a breath. “See that you do.”

They continued onto the bathroom. Thomas didn’t like very many bathroom aesthetics – for some reason, the majority had no reflection of the rest of the house – but he was fond of this one. It had a shower that took up a large amount of the space, and according to the information booklet, there were a number of strange and creative settings for it – including some sort of “giraffes fighting” setting that Thomas wanted the excuse to try someday. The tiling around the walls was white, but the wall the basin and mirror was attached to was a golden sort of stone that shimmered slightly. It was very extravagant, and Thomas loved every part of it.

The minute Prevost walked in, he tripped on one of the bathmats – fluffy and white – and fell heavily onto the basin, bracing his fall with his arms. He looked incredulously at the ground, and Thomas followed his glance: one of his shoelaces was undone. Cursing softly, the man placed his foot on the edge of the Armada bathtub and retied it. Thomas tried his best not to smirk; he knew the cause of this and it was bringing a spring to his step.

“This room is outrageously flashy,” Prevost commented suddenly. “That golden wall will look terrible once it starts to wear down.”

“Actually, that’s real stone, so it won’t wear easily. It’s called Tiger Eye.” He handed Prevost the booklet on the interior workings of the house. 

Prevost took it, giving it a brief glance before pulling out his phone to take a photo of the flashy wall. Thomas quickly moved on, and they went through the next three bedrooms and mini kitchen space quickly. The mini upstairs kitchen was one of Thomas’ favourite aspects: he’d heard numerous comments about the inconvenience of having to walk downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water or bite to eat, and here was a design finally addressing the issue.

The minute he saw Prevost nod approvingly at it, he felt slightly ill at the thought of having something in common with the man.

They were walking down the stairs – nice and wide, with each step large enough to actually fit the foot of a grown man -  when it happened. Prevost, walking a step behind Thomas, suddenly tripped forward and grabbed at Thomas’ arm to stop himself from falling. Thomas, not expecting the sudden pull, was jerked forward, but before he could follow Prevost down the stairs, he felt what seemed like an invisible wall in front of him, holding him in place and allowing him to regain his balance.

Apparently Prevost didn’t have the same; he practically rolled down the five or six steps before coming to a stop at the platform in the middle. Thomas rushed down to him, but he needn’t have worried: Prevost got to his feet immediately, and brushed himself off with a glare. “This house is a health hazard!” he shouted angrily.

“Sir,” Thomas interrupted. “I’m very sorry for any injuries there may have been from today’s visit, but we hold no responsibility for any damages, due to this being an unscheduled visit.” At Prevost’s outraged expression, he continued hurriedly, “There is also the fact that this house has been on display for a long time, and this is the first incident we’ve had, which, scientifically speaking, indicates that the house is sound.”

The temperature of the house increased slightly, and Thomas took this as his ghost’s way of expressing his approval at Thomas’ implication that Prevost was at fault.

Prevost looked at him in fury, and whipped his phone out. He snapped a photo of the staircase, and stormed to the doorway. Thomas walked after him, making his footsteps nice and casual to show that he wasn’t chasing after this dirtbag. If his ghost hated him _this_ much, then his feelings toward Prevost were valid.

“I’ll be speaking to your boss about my experiences today,” he said when Thomas met with him at the door. Thomas hid a smirk; Washington hated rude customers more than he did, and was rather trigger-happy himself. He’d shred this man to pieces before he let him do anything to Thomas or the company.

“I look forward to it,” he said instead. Shaking the man’s hand, he watched as the man left the house and drove away. _Finally_.

As he walked into the house to check the lightbulb and fix up anything, he could’ve sworn the very atmosphere felt warmer. He almost smiled. “Hey, thanks, not-ghost,” he called out suddenly, surprising himself. The only times he’d talked to his ghost was when he was yelling at him.

The ghost seemed surprised too; for a moment, it seemed as if everything in the house stood still and silent. The clocks skipped a beat and the vague buzzing of electricity that Thomas associated with the ghost’s connection to the lamp stopped. He barely had any time to process this before he was suddenly filled with cold air, his chest feeling like it’d just gone outside in the middle of a snowstorm. 

He frowned. “Did you just…” he started, trying to shake the urge to wrap his arms around his middle, “walk through me?”

There was no answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History lesson (god it's been a while since I've done these)!!!
> 
> \- I wasn't exaggerating when I mentioned the bit about Washington being trigger-happy. Washington had his first battle at 21, and said that there was "something charming in the sound" of whistling bullets. He volunteered for battle when the British army wouldn't accept him in the French and Indian War (that he may have started), and then years after this he shows up at the Continental Congress ready to fight again.  
> Thirteen years after he became president, he led 13,000 troops to suppress the Whiskey Rebellion (but unfortunately for him it ended peacefully).
> 
> \- Theodosia and Prevost got married in Trinity Church (everything leads back to that church apparently).
> 
> \- She and Burr had their affair while Prevost was fighting for the British, and married him after learning that she was a widow. (Prevost had been injured and his family were basically waiting to hear word of his death by then).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas realises something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is like double the size of my normal chapters (mainly bc I couldn't find a good way to separate them) and it might be a bit longer till the next update (which is bc of school not bc of this one's length)

The shot glass slammed onto the long table bar, and Thomas looked up at James in victory. “Does this mean I win?” he asked, a grin spread wide over his face.

James looked at him pityingly. “Thomas,” he began, folding his arms on the bar. “That was your second. This,” he gestured to the line of shot glasses before him, “was my fifth.”

Thomas gaped at his friend. “What the fuck.”

James shrugged. “Practise,” he said with a smirk. Thomas swallowed and avoided James’ gaze for a moment, unable to tear his slightly buzzed mind away from what had given James his alcohol tolerance.

If James noticed a shift in Thomas’ mood, he ignored it. Adopting a more serious expression, he leaned forward. “And you have something on your mind. Spill your tea.”

“I hate that saying so much,” Thomas groaned dramatically, moving his head to hit against James’ shoulder a few times before slumping back in his seat. James didn’t say anything; he simply waited for Thomas to start talking.

“You know how I was slightly complaining about that _dick client_ —” James coughed into his fist, the sharp noise sounding suspiciously like _slightly, my ass._ “—what I left out was how my ghost shoved him down a flight of stairs.”

This time James’ cough was real, and he looked at Thomas with wide eyes as he thumped his chest. He placed his drink on the bar in front of him and turned to his friend. “Thomas, I know you’re attached to this not-ghost but – no, don’t argue, you are – if he’s a threat, you gotta tell someone. We can’t have clients dying because your unsellable house has a poltergeist.”

Thomas was about to reply when he noticed that the bartender, wiping glasses on the other side of the counter to them, was looking in their direction. Thomas’ socially awkward mind immediately drew him to the worst-case scenario, and he said loudly, “I’m always a slut for realistic apocalyptic video games." 

The bartender walked towards them and Thomas’ heart rate picked up. Flicking through all his get-out-of-bad-situations emergency list, he was about to grab James’ hand and get down on his knees to fake a proposal when the bartender moved by them to another man sitting farther down the counter.

The relief Thomas felt at that moment was insurmountable, and he chugged down whatever was in the glass before him. At James’ slight sigh of resignation, he deduced that it wasn’t his own drink. Luckily, James had been friends with him for far too long to question moments like this, and he continued the conversation from where it’d become derailed.

“So?” he prompted Thomas, nudging him slightly with a knee. “Is ‘your ghost’ dangerous?”

“He’s not ‘my’ anything, except ‘pain in the ass,” Thomas muttered, playing around with the last few drops remaining at the bottom of the glass. James snorted. “And no, I don’t think so? He only played a few pranks on that _pig-breathed kidney thief_ —” he took a breath, “—because he was being a jackass.” James hummed in reply, looking at the sparkling display of glasses in front of them.

Thomas slid around and off his stool, stretching slightly. “Bathroom,” he said in explanation. He fiddled with the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt – they’d come immediately from the office after he’d spent a few hours _discussing_ Prevost to James, who’d promptly grabbed him by the arm after work and marched him straight to his car. Honestly, James was probably the best friend he’d ever had. They’d gone through everything together, having grown up as neighbours (albeit the distance between their houses was significant). James was a constant in all of Thomas’ memories: the humiliation of his numerous attempts to woo his various crushes, his mother’s distance from him and his father’s imposing style of parenting, the adoption of Gilbert and all the anxiety that festered in him before they became close…

There was a bright pink drink waiting for him when he got back. He sniffed at it suspiciously before internally shrugging and downing it in one go. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of James’ eyebrows go up slightly, but paid no heed. Smug bastard was always trying to show off his eyebrow-raising skills. 

“What even was that?” he spluttered after swallowing. Thomas liked to live a life of as few regrets as humanely possible, but gulping that bright concoction would definitely be on that list.

“What did it taste like?” James asked in return, face impassive as he took a measured sip. _It was like he was showing off his impeccable sipping skills now,_ Thomas thought distantly. He could feel his mind become more and more groggy and fought to keep his focus on the conversation.

“Like,” he paused and shrugged, “I dunno. Drank too fast to tell.”

Five seconds later – or what felt like it – there was an identical drink sitting in front of him. He frowned. Did he honestly want to try this again? It felt too much like a metaphor for the current state of his life: a second chance being placed before him, but not knowing how to redo it.

“Thomas,” James rumbled from beside him, “Just take a mouthful.”

Thomas took a mouthful. And immediately – “Oh my _God_ ” – another. It tasted of coconuts and berries, the flavour of summers in Monticello. “Jemmy, you gotta try this, it tastes like childhood,” he exclaimed, shoving it to James’ chest and somehow not spilling a drop.

“I just finished like three,” James told him, but accepted the beverage anyway. “And I think we should leave. You somehow skipped your hyper drunk stage and went straight to broody and philosophic.”

“Nooooo,” Thomas whined, looking up at James with the biggest ‘puppy eyes’ he could manage. He’d never attempted this trick whilst sober, but watching Gilbert practise it on their parents had been educational. “A bit longer? I’ll be hyper if you want me to be.”

James looked amused. He reached over and fiddled with Thomas’ stripy purple tie, loosening it so it hung around his neck. “Fine.” He ordered another drink, which Thomas found vaguely insulting, but figured it wasn’t up to him to judge if James needed to consume questionably coloured beverages in order to listen to him babble.

“Did I tell you,” he began, swirling a strand of hair around his finger before letting it spring back into place, “Gilbert killed off the Thomas plant the other day, and Eliza Schuyler bought him another one. _Another one._ ”

James huffed a laugh. “I’m starting to lose count at this rate,” he acknowledged. Then he frowned. “Wait. You said Eliza Schuyler?”

Thomas nodded. “Yeah.”

“How’d you two meet?” 

“I went over to check on Hamilton for Gilbert the other night and she offered a ride.” Thomas could see James’ eyes acquire a certain glint he recognised, but with his mind in its addled state, he couldn’t quite decipher what it was that sent alarm bells ringing.

“You went over to see Hamilton?” James was studiously looking away from him. Thomas’ wariness increased.

“Yeah…?” He drew the word out questioningly, wondering where this was going.

“Is this your first seeing him since…” James trailed off, but Thomas understood. He wasn’t referring to the carbon monoxide poisoning, but to their fight.

Thomas sighed, looking down at his lap. He wasn’t drunk enough for this conversation, but couldn’t seem to stop talking. “Yeah,” he muttered. “He looks the same, but different at the same time, you know?”

James hummed in response, and Thomas continued talking. “I mean, in a way he looks better rested than he ever did _before_ but I can’t stop thinking about him dying before—” His voice suddenly became choked off and he grabbed James’ glass and swallowed its contents. He grimaced at the taste and severe lack of hard alcohol. Elbows on his knees, he leaned forward, head practically touching James’ ribs. “Before I get a chance to apologise.”

“And before you have a chance to profess your undying love for him,” he heard from above him.

Shooting up, he screeched, “What?!” as the glass fell from his hands. It dropped to the floor with a sharp _smash_ , pieces spreading all over the area. Thomas looked at the destruction in horror, and then at James.

The bartender had come racing around, and brushed off Thomas and James’ offers of help and payment. They apologised profusely, both equally as bad at unprepared social issues, and eventually left. After gingerly stepping away from the scene, they walked outside to James’ car.

“I can’t believe you broke a glass over confronting your crush,” James commented casually, breaking the silence they’d been in for the past five minutes.

Thomas whirled his head around sharply, indignation colouring his voice as he said, “I don’t have a crush on Hamilton!”

“Mm-hmm.” James indicated right, and they merged onto the main road. 

“I don’t!” Thomas protested again. He didn’t know why he was still arguing against this so vehemently, but the idea was so preposterous. “Hamilton may no longer be a pain in my ass,” and here he furiously ignored James’ “you wish he’d be”, “but we still have _nothing_ in common. His opinions are bullshit, and we aren’t even in each other’s lives anymore so it doesn’t really matter, does it?” _Hamilton is in a coma now and they don’t know when he’ll wake up, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?_ His voice had grown quieter towards the end of his tirade, and James didn’t respond.

Instead, he pulled up in front of Thomas’ apartment building and said, “I’ll pick you up for work tomorrow at quarter to eight.”

 

* * *

 

Thomas burst into Gilbert’s room and turned the lights on. “GILBERT,” he shouted, jumping on the bed.

He heard a faint groan from beneath him, and manoeuvred himself so he was under the covers; it was freezing. Finding a head of hair, he placed his mouth as close to it as he could without detection and said, “WAKE UP.”

Thomas was whacked in the face with a pillow.

After a brief moment of spluttering, he looked up to see a glare directed at him. “Putain!?”

So it was going to be a French conversation. Switching languages, he continued at the same volume, “ _James said I have a crush on Hamilton and I was denying it but since we got back I’ve been thinking and I think he was right.”_ He paused to take a breath.

Gilbert shifted to glance at the clock, and upon reading the time displayed, groaned and face-planted into his pillow. “ _It’s three a.m!”_

Thomas nodded frantically. “ _I know. I wanted to_ really _think things over.”_

“ _You got back at eleven!”_

“ _Late night is when I find the truth! The stars, Gilbert!”_

Suddenly, Gilbert’s head popped up from the pillow. “ _Wait.”_ He turned around, a massive grin on his face. “ _You’re in love with Hamilton?”_

_“No! I have a crush on him, it’s different.”_

_“But there’s the potential for love.”_ Thomas could see where this was going and he refused to let Gilbert play matchmaker for him and his comatose friend.

“ _I don’t want to love him, that’s why I came in here. How do I stop feeling feelings?”_

Gilbert snorted. _“Thomas, you can’t stop ‘feeling feelings’.”_

_“Yes I can, if I believe hard enough!”_

There was a pause, and for a moment Thomas wondered if he’d gotten his French right.

Then, “ _Are you drunk?”_

There was an even longer pause as Thomas avoided Gilbert’s gaze by closing his eyes. If he couldn’t see Gilbert, Gilbert may not be able to see him.

 _“Oh my God,”_ he heard Gilbert mutter. Had he said that aloud? _“Yes, you said that aloud.”_

“Oops.”

“ _You have work in a few hours! And Angelica told me to remind you that you two are meeting up at her house afterwards, by the way. Don’t think you can get out of that, she’ll solve your ghost problem by making you one.”_

He’d completely forgotten about Angelica. After coming home, he’d walked straight to his room in a daze and realised that semi-intoxication was not the way he wanted this internal debate to go. And the situation had gone downhill from there.

He heard a sigh. “I’ll call in for you for work,” Gilbert said, suddenly changing to English. Thomas didn’t get a chance to thank him; he was almost asleep. The last thing he heard before he lost the battle to the darkness flooding in like waves was, “...let's…you…Thomas' room...”

 

* * *

 

 

“Good, you aren’t late,” Angelica said in greeting when Thomas showed up on her doorstep that afternoon. He smiled at her as he handed her a box of homemade brownies – he’d woken up with a headache that had eventually turned into a massive craving, and seeing as how his previous attempts at microwaving them had been disastrous, to say the least, he’d decided to whip up a batch.

One batch had somehow turned into five.

Angelica’s house – or rather, the Schuylers’ house, as it’d been an inherited building that had been passed down to the three of them when they turned eighteen – was rather large, fit to hold five to seven people comfortably. It was a double-storied, modern house that Thomas fully appreciated every time he entered, and the Schuylers had decorated it very effectively, accentuating the polished and sophisticated appearance of its design with their choice in aesthetics. However, it only appeared ‘polished’ if they had prepared for guests; the sisters in their natural habitat had a unique sense of order.

There were only two people permanently inhabiting the house now – Peggy had moved in with Burr a few months into their relationship – but Thomas knew the place was open to anyone in need of somewhere to stay. He himself had spent a few nights in a guest bedroom when he’d started looking for apartments, and he knew that Hamilton had been a constant on-and-off presence there for whatever reason (due to them running into each other there whenever he went to visit Angelica or Peggy).

As he stepped into the living room, he heard the chatter of voices suddenly quieten down at once before restarting, the tinge of forced casualty obvious in the tone. He fought the urge to bolt back outside and smiled as naturally as possibly, crinkling his eyes the way he knew he did. He was friends with everyone here; they hadn’t been talking about him when he entered. More likely something he’d imagined.

Peggy was seated on the massive sofa with her back to the sofa handle and feet in Eliza’s lap where Eliza was painting them a wild shade of blue. Burr sat on the rug at the foot of Peggy’s seat, facing the TV and studiously watching a… candle-making documentary? And to Thomas’ surprise, Hercules Mulligan sat on the sofa perpendicular to the one the three were occupying, a wicker basket filled with balls of yarn at his feet, knitting what appeared to be a half-finished shawl.

It was purple. Thomas wanted one.

Peggy saw Thomas first, and grinned at him. “Thomas! Get over here, I’ll paint your nails!” she shouted. The rest of the group turned and smiled (nodded, in Burr’s case) in welcome.

The unease faded as suddenly as it had appeared and Thomas allowed a genuine smile to appear on his face as he walked towards Peggy. Burr moved slightly so he could sit in front of her, and he sat down cross-legged with his hand on her knee, fingers splayed. Angelica came in moments later with his box of brownies, placing them on the coffee table.

She then sat on the coffee table. Thomas frowned. He always got yelled when he did that. Angelica noticed his frown and smirked smugly at him.

Clearing her throat assertively, she began, “You all know why we’re here.”

Thomas looked around; everyone else was nodding or at the very least didn’t look confused. “I have no idea why I’m here.”

Eliza answered him. “We’re a matchmaking squad.”

What. 

“What Eliza means is,” Hercules clarified, knitting while making eye contact with Thomas, “we’re a matchmaking squad with one particular goal.” 

Thomas didn’t feel as enlightened as Hercules’ face said he should.

Burr sighed. “We’re trying to get John and Lafayette together.”

Ah. “Thank you, Aaron,” Thomas said, finally feeling a sense of understanding. “Bless your bluntness.”

Just as Angelica opened her mouth to begin speaking, the doorbell rang and she got up to answer it. Eliza had frozen upon hearing it, her hand jerking slightly and a streak of polish painting across her track-pants. Hercules and Peggy exchanged knowing glances as she cursed softly, rubbing at it with her thumb and discreetly wiping it off on the cuffs of Peggy’s jeans (which only Thomas saw, seeing as there was no squawk of outrage from her).

A moment later, a woman appeared behind Angelica. She had wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders and wore average student clothing, and Thomas could immediately see the attempt at downplaying her appearance: she held herself like she was used to being noticed, and not in a good way; there was a defensive stance to her posture (most likely subconscious, he surmised) that he recognised from videos in his social psychology course.

She came around and plopped down next to Eliza, and when Eliza turned to her, Thomas knew exactly what Peggy and Hercules had been smirking over. Eliza was so gone for this girl.

Angelica sat back down on the coffee table, a look on her face that meant business. “Okay, gang. Introductions are in order.” She gestured towards the woman. “This is Maria, she works with Eliza and John at the orphanage.” Maria waved at the room, somehow making it appear natural and graceful. Thomas was slightly in awe. “That’s Thomas. He’s Laf’s brother, and he met John the other night at the Washingtons’ place. And he provided us with _so much blackmail content_ for after these two get together _._ ” _Oops?_

Angelica picked up a brownie and nibbled at it. “Aaron Burr,” she waved at him with a flourish, “who’s dating my sister. And that’s probably the only reason he’s here right now." 

Burr shrugged. “I’m friends with Laf,” he said. “And we used to date.”

“Whaaaat.” Thomas turned to Burr in shock. “ _You two_ used to _date?”_

He wasn’t the only one unaware of this, apparently. Angelica threw a decorative candle at him. “We said to share need-to-know information at the first meeting! This is need-to-know information!”

“When was this?” Eliza questioned, looking up from Peggy’s nails. Peggy looked flicked his shoulder, making him turn around indignantly.

“Yeah, when _was_ this?” she asked playfully.

“Sometime during his first year of uni,” Burr replied, slightly wide-eyed at the responses to his remark.

Hercules was the only one who appeared unperturbed, and Angelica turned to him. “Did you know about this?”

Burr started talking first. “No one knew—” 

“Yeah,” Hercules cut in casually.

Burr gaped. “How?”

He shrugged. “You two left behind so much evidence, it was embarrassing the others didn’t know.”

Thomas decided that this was a man he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of.

“Moving on,” Angelica interceded. “The detective over there is Hercules Mulligan.”

Hercules lifted a hand in greeting without looking up from his stitching.

“So, now that we all know why we’re here,” Angelica rubbed her hands together in a rather villainously way, “it’s time to create a plan of attack.”

“Wait.” Thomas sat up, and Angelica death-stared at him for the interruption. “Shouldn’t James be here? He’s been actively trying to get them together, literally." 

“James couldn’t come tonight. He left halfway through work,” Angelica told him. Thomas felt a stab of concern grow in the pit of his stomach and resolved to call his friend after this was over. “So, what’ve we tried so far, just to catch the newbies up?”

“Locking them in a cupboard,” Eliza said, “which I still think only failed because we did it within an hour of their first meeting.”

“Drenching John ‘accidentally’ so he’d have to take off his shirt,” Peggy added. “And that worked, to a degree.”

Hercules snorted. “Yeah, Laf was so red John asked to check his temperature three times.”

Angelica leaned back on her hands. “To be fair, he did turn out to be actually sick, so I guess it’s our fault for bad timing.”

“Constantly leaving a room whenever there’s a chance we could be third-wheeling,” Eliza said. “But only in rooms we’ve got camera surveillance in because we’re nosy like that.”

“Oh, James said he keeps trying to shove them together when they’re walking down stairs,” Thomas said. He still couldn’t believe that his hypochondriac friend would do that.

“Yeah, that didn’t work out so well,” Angelica muttered, staring off into space and clearly recounting memories.

“That one time we did that thing with the flour,” Eliza suddenly said after a moment of silence. “That was interesting.”

“The flour?” Burr questioned when it seemed like no one was going to elaborate.

“Yeah, Peggy invited everyone over to bake and when they arrived, said that they were the only ones who could come—”

“—everyone else was upstairs watching it through the camera and honestly I’ll never trust Laf in the kitchen I swear—”

“—but John was awesome. He cracked an egg with one hand—”

“—and I think that’s what solidified Laf’s love for him, because after he did that—”

“—Laf full on whirled around, and we _knew_ he was going to kiss him, but then the _fucking_ —”

 “Language your language, you can’t swear till you reach level twelve maturity,” Hercules interceded.

Peggy stuck her tongue out at him. “Doorbell rang,” she continued, picking up from where she left off. “And it completely ruined the moment.”

Thomas processed this information. “So should we recycle ideas we think will work?” he asked.

“Actually,” Burr said, startling the majority in the room who’d forgotten he was there, “how about a movie night? We’ll set everything up so they sit next to each other in that chair,” he indicated Hercules’ sofa with a jerk of his chin, “so they’d have to be on top of each other and share popcorn. And I know Laf’s a sucker for rom-coms. Or just plain old romance." 

“John’s a crier,” Maria said, speaking for the first time since the introductions. “We watched _Parental Guidance_ together – which is a _comedy_ by the way – and he cried at the one emotional scene.”

Eliza nodded. “Yeah, he cries every time we watch any _Harry Potter_ movie.”

Angelica looked thoughtful. “Okay, what’s an obvious romantic tearjerker?”

“The Notebook?” Peggy suggested. She waved her feet in the air, the still-wet paint glistening. Thomas suddenly realised that he, too, had paint on his nails. Glancing down, he saw that it was neon pink and neon green in a stripy pattern on each. He scowled at Peggy, who looked back innocently.

“Titanic?”

“Everyone’s seen them too many times, they might not work,” Hercules said. 

“Brokeback Mountain?” Thomas suggested with a smile.

“John’ll start ranting about LGBT representation in the media and how it’s always portrayed as doomed or temporary or problematic or all of the above,” Maria said. “I speak from experience.” 

“That movie with Daenerys Targaryen and Finnick Odair?” Eliza asked. She’d moved onto painting Maria’s nails a vibrant shade of red.

“Nerd,” Peggy muttered.

“I _will_ smudge your nails,” Eliza warned.

“How about Moulin Rouge?” Thomas suddenly said. “Gilbert has a thing for musicals.”

“Oh my god, yes! They can sing duets together for the rest of their lives!” Eliza screeched. 

“Okay,” Angelica said, pulling out her phone, “so this Friday night. Sleepover. We’re all going to get here an hour earlier so we can plan out seating arrangements and food and anything else we can think of like how to hide all the blankets so they only realise they have to share after the rest of us go to sleep.”

She looked up, her smile reminding Thomas slightly of a cheetah before it caught its prey. “This has been another productive and successful session. Thanks for coming. I’d offer you Thomas’ brownies but I ate them all and honestly you can’t blame me, they were _so good_.” 

Thomas chuckled, and pulled out another box from behind him. “You’re so predictable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'm projecting my baking skillz onto Thomas poor kid...
> 
> Shoutout to my friend (who doesn't even read this fic lol she'll never even see this) who saved me from hours of googling, and thanks to my beta Lesty gO CHECK OUT HER STUFF IT'S AWESOME also we (she) started a fanfic war so if you're looking for angst go check it out =)
> 
> The only reason James isn't in the end scene with the rest of the gang is because I completely forgot he shipped them too oops.
> 
> I think I chose Moulin Rouge to give myself an excuse to rewatch it iNSteAD oF LITerALLY eVerY oTHeR MUsicAL On My TO wATCh LIST hElP
> 
> Talk to me on tumblr @fanfictiongreenirises =D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica has some new plan for the House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been like two weeks and I'm hella sorry because the one thing I wanted myself to not do was stray from the schedule but school's been hectic. I may or may not post the next chapter this weekend; depends on how much I write =D
> 
> Shoutout to my beta [Lesty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesty/pseuds/Lesty) who hasn't seen like most of this whoops.

Angelica called him the next morning. “Yo, where are you?” 

It was her off-day, but sadly not Thomas’. Thomas didn’t believe in off-days.

“Work,” he replied, typing as he talked in the phone that was precariously balanced between his shoulder and ear.

“Cool.” And she hung up.

Thomas sighed, but he was too immersed in his work to think on it any further. He stared unblinkingly at the screen as the letters appeared, blinking only when he felt his eyes begin to strain.

His desk was relatively neat most of the time, personal items at a minimum. He had a couple of photos: one of his family – yes, apparently it was possible to get one with _all_  his siblings – sitting on one corner, and one with him and James from their graduation. These were all copies; he had the originals sitting atop his crowded tallboy in his bedroom. There was the usual stack of papers sitting in three or four (he couldn’t tell at this point, and whenever this happened, Thomas was always beyond caring) piles, and somewhere beneath it all was a paperweight. Thomas hated the irony of a paperweight being weighed down underneath a stack of papers.

His office chair had been custom designed by him, because he couldn’t work in stiff chairs. The arms were possibly the more important parts of it: the right arm had an arm pillow attached to it – removable, but he never did – for his wrist; he’d dislocated it in his youth and it’d been reset all wrong, and since then it’d caused him all sorts of trouble.

Thomas was glad he wasn’t writing all these documents by hand: there was no end to the paperwork and he didn’t envy realtors from the past. He needed to have this document typed up and ready to go for another one of his townhouses that was drawing attention like a fly to a mango in summer, and then there was incident filing for the House that he kept falling behind…

His door flung open and jolted Thomas out of his thoughts. He jerked upright, hands flying off the keyboard in shock. He stared wide-eyed at the figure standing in the doorway.

“Wha—”

He was cut off almost immediately. “I found this epic house smoking technique we haven’t tried yet. Let’s go,” said Angelica in a rush, somehow managing to enunciate each syllable clearly even at the high speed.

Thomas stared at her. He hadn’t had enough coffee for this.

“C’mon,” Angelica repeated impatiently. “We haven’t got all day. It needs this specific time thing. I think.”

“Wait,” Thomas said, running a hand over his face and trying to wake himself up to the present, “what?”

Angelica frowned, eyeing him suspiciously. “Did you leave your concentration skills in bed when you woke up this morning? I found this ritual thing to smoke out spirits, and I wanna use it to threaten Not-Ghost.”

This was the worst idea Thomas had ever heard. He made sure to let Angelica know where he stood.

Angelica, unsurprisingly, didn’t care. “We aren’t going to _die_ , Thomas,” she said placatingly, as if she were talking to a younger child. “He hasn’t killed anyone yet, not even Douchey McDouche.” 

Thomas snorted. “Always a first time for everything.” But even as he said it, he was rising to his feet and packing the rest of the paperwork and his laptop into his satchel. There was no denying Angelica when she got into a mood like this.

Angelica, to her credit, didn’t smirk too loudly as she grabbed him by the elbow and practically frog-marched him outside to her car. But just as they were about to pull out of the parking space, Thomas yelled, “Wait!” and Angelica slammed on the brakes.

They both lurched forward at the sudden lack of movement. “What’s wrong?” Angelica asked, a slightly crazed look in her eyes. Thomas couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was definitely something off about her. He’d have to keep an eye on his friend until the right moment to confront.

“We forgot James!”

Angelica gave him a look of utter disbelief. “You mean to tell me,” she began, voice starting out quiet and slowly rising, “that I almost released the airbags with that hard brake because _we forgot James?”_

“Um.” Thomas quickly pulled his phone out and sent a text to James. At the lack of an immediate response, he sent another. And another.

And kept sending one-word texts until James finally called him.

“Thomas,” he heard his friend sigh, “what?”

“Angelica wants to go ghost smoking,” Thomas said with a fast glance to his right. “You should come.”

“Thomas,” James punctuated his name with yet another sigh, “I have work. _You_ have work.” 

“Jemmy,” Thomas allowed a slight whine to enter his tone, “you’ve never met the dude. And this might be your _last chance_.”

None of them believed this spirit would go away that easily, but neither James nor Angelica corrected him.

After a third and possibly fourth – how did one differentiate sighs? Could there be two sighs in one exhale, with a pause between the two? – and James finally agreed. 

 

* * *

 

James hummed quietly as they pulled up to the House. “It looks exactly the same as it did last time I was here,” he commented mildly, getting out of the car. 

Thomas frowned. “You were here like a month ago,” he said. “Why would it look different?”

James shrugged. “Your stories made it sound a lot wilder than it is in real life.”

Thomas felt slightly insulted. What was wrong with his dramatic retellings of his daily experiences?

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with them,” Angelica smirked when he voiced his thoughts, “but you do have a way of making everything seem more than it is.”

James coughed something into his elbow that made Angelica snort, but Thomas could only catch the words ‘fence’ and ‘logs’. It didn’t take an English teacher to work out that the comment was about his brief but passionate infatuation with Maria Cosway. Grumbling to himself as he unlocked the door, he silently vowed to leave them for dead if the ghost suddenly acted up.

Walking inside felt a little like visiting an old friend after a bad day. The house always smelled the same, no matter how much Thomas experimented with scents: at first he’d begun with vanilla, and then he’d tried sandalwood because he’d found a stash of nice sandalwood scented candles hanging around the office that no one would use for some obscure reason (he soon found out this reason, hence moving onto a third scent), then it was peppermint during the holiday season – he’d discovered that those who’d been brought up in a religious or even festive environment would become happier when they smelled familiar scents. 

But the same scent of lemons and cedar-wood kept returning no matter how much he experimented. He’d even tried baking in the kitchen of the house at one point (he wasn’t entirely sure if he was technically allowed to do this, but in his defence, it was in all for the greater good and maybe scientific understanding) but the citrus smell had masked it. 

Since when had this scent invoked a feeling of familiarity rather than annoyance?

“So we need to line up the candles along the edges there,” Angelica was saying when Thomas focused back to the conversation, “and get some extra around the lamp over there. It’s how he talked to us last time and it’d be good to give it more focus so it’s less draining.” 

James dutifully followed her instructions; he was only here on Thomas’ request and had zero trust in anything related to the supernatural. James, Thomas mused, would be that kid in the horror movie who got peer pressured into exploring the haunted house and one of the first few that got killed off as a plot device.

“And last time we had food but he didn’t really care about it?” Angelica said, placing her coffee on the table. Thomas followed suit, but not before chugging down half of the beverage in the cup, making both James and Angelica stare at him like he’d committed some atrocious sin.

He raised an eyebrow in question ( _take that, James; you aren’t the only one with superior eyebrow raising powers_ ), licking off the coffee remaining on his lips. It may have been his imagination, but it felt as though the temperature of the room suddenly went from relatively cool to incredibly humid before settling somewhere in the middle. “What?”

Angelica shook her head, muttering, “Heathen.” James smirked in Thomas’ direction at the comment.

It’d taken an extra ten minutes than their previous attempt, but the three finally set up the room. Sitting around the table, Angelica placed her phone with the Morse code reader app open and on voice-command, along with a pen and paper.

They grasped each other’s hands and slowly recited the same chant as before. And suddenly Thomas felt a chill run through his body. He glanced around; Angelica had her eyes focused firmly on the lamp, which was in the corner directly opposite her and behind Thomas; James had his gaze fixed on Angelica’s coffee cup, and when Thomas looked at it, he barked a laugh. The coffee in the cup was slowly but consistently disappearing. 

Angelica had glanced at him sharply, her face asking _what_ , and he jerked his head towards the coffee cup.

“You dick!” she shouted the minute she saw the diminishing beverage. “Drink Thomas’!” 

Thomas, who’d been laughing, stopped suddenly. “Wait, what?”

“I think he’s already tried Thomas’,” James said, amusement colouring his tone, “and moved on when he didn’t like it.”

Thomas huffed. “Anyone who doesn’t like my coffee doesn’t have taste.”

“Anyone who drinks that thing you call coffee like you do on a regular basis will literally not be able to taste because they’d’ve killed off their taste buds,” James deadpanned. Thomas stuck his tongue out at him, not caring if it made him look like an immature pre-schooler.

“I drink—” he began.

“Thomas, sweetie, your taste in coffee is literally two extremes with no in-between,” Angelica broke in.

Thomas huffed at her, but couldn’t argue: it was true. He took off the lid of his coffee cup (with difficulty; they had to coordinate body movement so as to not break the connection) – it was from Starbucks, because he’d woken up that morning and felt like being a basic Tumblr hipster – and saw, to his disgust, what appeared to be sludge inside it. What had been a Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccino Blended Beverage™, double shot with extra whipped cream, was now a gooey mixture with what seemed to be a tar-like texture.

Thomas wrinkled his nose in disgust and outrage, shouting, “Hey! You can mess with literally anything but _not my coffee_!”

There was a soft breeze, and the distant, distant sound of laughter. Thomas’ eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

“Was that…” James’ face was a combination of shock and hesitant delight. 

“Was that you?” Angelica, of course, was the one to demand. Her eyes were fixed on the lamp. “Thomas, activate the voice thing on the phone,” she barked at him.

After a moment of fiddling, Thomas gave her the nod. Angelica immediately began speaking, saying _dot_ and _dash_ as fast as they would appear. Thomas wished they’d thought to set up a camera to record the room in case they missed anything. _Or in case they didn’t make it out_ , a voice that sounded a lot like James said in his mind, but he dismissed it almost immediately. His ghost had never hurt him before.

“‘Your taste in coffee is atrocious’,” Angelica read out from her phone. She turned to Thomas. “I like your friend here.”

“So do I,” James added. “You’re gonna get cavities and diabetes if you keep drinking this shit.”

“Excuse you,” Thomas tried to defend his taste, “I work out.”

“Ee know,” they both said simultaneously, somehow. At Thomas’ look of disbelief, James added, “You get home after a gym session and Snapchat your food to everyone.”

“Yeah, and it’s always the same caption,” Angelica added. “‘Time to regain all the calories I just lost’” or ‘look what’s about to refill my ab holes’.”

Thomas spluttered in indignation. “Where’s our united front against the enemy?!”

James raised an eyebrow. He didn’t even need to say anything. 

“I came out to have a good time and am honestly feeling so attacked right now,” Thomas muttered darkly.

Suddenly, Angelica’s eyes lit up and she began speaking into her phone again. A moment later, she let out a snort of laughter. “‘That meme is so outdated I’m surprised you aren’t the ghost here’.”

Thomas’ eyes narrowed at the comment. “How old are you?” he asked.

_Younger than you, both biologically and mentally, it would seem._

“Do you live around here?” James asked. Thomas tried to think of the nearest hospital (someone on the brink of death, maybe?), but it was around thirty minutes’ drive from the House.

_Yes._

“Huh,” Angelica murmured, lost in thought. “If you aren’t dead, why’re you here, of all places?”

“Yeah,” Thomas voiced. “You can’t have an emotional tie to this house. It’s, like, hella modern.”

_Please stop trying to use ‘young people’ words. And I’m not here because of the house._

“Have you tried to go other places?” Thomas wondered if his ghost had haunted other people like it haunted him, and felt unsettled at the thought.

_Yes, but it didn’t work out so well._

“Why not?”

_Let’s just say I wasn’t welcome where I wanted to go._

Thomas frowned, and opened his mouth to continue probing, but James interrupted him. “What do you want us to call you?”

_I don’t want you to call me anything yet._

“Yet?” Angelica questioned. “Why ‘yet’? You plan on telling us who you are at some point?”

_We’ll see how it goes. Now, I’ve finished your coffee so your time’s up. Next time bring more. Black, three sugars._

“And you say _my_ taste is atrocious!” Thomas exclaimed. “And who even _says_ atrocious?!”

He looked at Angelica, but she was frowning in thought with her gaze directed at the lamp, like there was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Thomas’ mind suddenly flashed back to a thought he’d had earlier that day, where he’d picked up on something being up with his friend. He’d have to ask later; she and James weren’t as close as the two of them and he knew she’d clam up if he were present.

They ended the ritual, and began collecting the candles. Thomas shuddered to think what his clients would do if they found what appeared to be the remains of a satanic ceremony in the living room of a house they wanted to buy.

A sharp _buzz_ filled the air, and all three glanced around at one another, trying to determine whose phone was vibrating. James shook his head, patting his front pocket. Thomas looked around for his, and found it in his coat. They turned to face Angelica, who walked over to the coffee table and picked it up. 

“Eliza?” She listened for a moment. “Yeah, sure.” A glance towards Thomas and James. “Now? Mmm hmm. Be there in a bit.” Pocketing her phone, she said to Thomas and James, “I told Eliza I’d give her and Herc a ride to the Washingtons’ place tonight, but she’s done early. Do you two mind…?”

“It’s fine with me,” James said easily. “I’ve been meaning to visit Alex for some time now.” 

Angelica nodded, and turned to Thomas, who shrugged. “I’m cool with it.” 

The temperature of the house suddenly fluctuated again, and Thomas glared at the ceiling as he walked towards the door. “Geez, calm down. It’s like you have separate anxiety or something.”

A chair suddenly moved into his path and he stumbled around it, trying not to trip. “If you’ve scratched this wood, I will end you. You won’t even be a ghost this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History lesson time!
> 
> So when Jefferson broke/dislocated (honestly I just looked at like one source and it used the two words interchangeably like no?) his right wrist when he was out gallivanting with Maria Cosway, it was set by a bunch of French surgeons, who messed up something and it ended up being basically unusable: he was in highkey pain for ages, he got this dude to write his letters for him until he could write with his left hand (and honestly his left-handed writing is goals?), and he basically never regained use of it. 
> 
> And then like 20 years later he fell down a flight of stairs or something in Monticello (I researched and wrote the first bit of that like two assignments ago so my memory's not as good rip) and dislocated/broke the other wrist. 
> 
> And that thing with having like wrist cushions is true; he had them for comfort because of his wrist injury. (Also as I was researching this I got #inspired for a fic idea so maybe that'll happen maybe I'll write evEryTHiNG ElsE I'vE BeEN PuTtING OFf wHO KnOWs NoT mE)
> 
> Also check out [this dude's blog](http://ploddingthroughthepresidents.blogspot.com.au/) for history facts. It's honestly the most addictive thing ever
> 
> Thomas' coffee is directly off the American Starbucks menu btw.
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/) =D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the House^(tm) to another house and all the shit in between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally wrote another chapter jfc 
> 
> This thing was literally written in four hours so I'm sorry for any mistakes also (if you can write I'm always open to tips and feedback) =D
> 
> I've got a break for the next two wks so I'll try to write a bunch so I can actually maintain the regular updates after the break =)

Thomas stared out the window as Angelica drove along. He and James were in the backseat; they had an unspoken agreement that whenever there were three people in the car, they would have two in the back so it didn’t feel as excluding. But between the three of them, there was almost no conversation. Angelica had the radio on and some overhyped song was playing that Thomas probably knew the words to but didn’t focus on. His mind was running through the events of the day, trying to piece together the ghost’s clues. 

Angelica spoke for what seemed like the first time. She’d been oddly quiet since they’d left the house. “We gotta fit Herc here too, guys. Forgot to mention.”

“He’s in the front,” James quickly said. Thomas hummed in agreement: Angelica’s car was a tiny Volvo and he and James were cramped enough as it was.

Angelica eyed them both through the rear-view mirror. “This better not be an attempt to hit on my sister.”

This was an ongoing joke. “With you present?” James asked innocently. “ _Never._ ”

Angelica snorted and pulled over to the curb, where Thomas could see the figures of Hercules and Eliza, who appeared even tinier next to Hercules’ muscles. She rolled down the window of the passenger-side door and said, “Herc, you’re up front with me. ‘Liza, dear, you just got demoted to the backseat.”

Eliza pulled a face at Angelica, but dutifully got in the back, where James shifted to the middle to make space. Now all three of them were squashed and trying not to move too much.

Angelica and Hercules appeared fine in the front, though. “How was the orphanage?” Angelica asked conversationally as she munched on god-knows-what. Thomas shuddered to think what was kept in the storage space in the passenger side; he’d always been forbidden to open it, but the one time James had felt rebellious and tried, they’d found what appeared to be a week’s worth of takeout containers. James had used up a week's worth of hand sanitiser in one day.

“It was great!” Eliza replied, bouncing in her seat slightly. “You know that kid I was telling you about? Philip?” And here she looked at Thomas, who nodded. “He’s started to listen to music again. He was avoiding it when he first came in – reminded him of his parents – but today we caught him and this other kid, Georges, rapping!”

There came an appropriate amount of aww-ing and praise, and Thomas, who’d always tried to avoid children he wasn’t immediately related to, felt the urge to check out this orphanage himself. 

“Call me if you have time to come by,” Eliza told him when he said this, “and here’s my number.” She typed it into his phone, taking a photo to use as her contact image, and then adding herself on his Snapchat, Instagram, and Facebook.

Thomas wished he had this sort of confidence.

“Cool,” he said weakly, smiling at her when she returned his phone to him.

“Oooh, I heard you like cats!” Eliza said suddenly.

Thomas frowned. “Where’d you hear that?”

She shrugged. “Laf mentioned it when he mentioned he was ado—”

“And now for a car game!” Hercules interrupted loudly.

Thomas and James exchanged _what the fuck_ glances. Hercules wasn’t subtle.

“I vote the punching one,” James said after a moment’s hesitation.

“The punching one?” Angelica glanced at him through the mirror.

“Yeah, the one from that Stucky fanfic.”

“I ship them so hard,” Hercules muttered from the front seat.

“You mean ‘punch buggy’?” Eliza asked. 

“You read fanfiction?!” Angelica turned around and stared at her sister, causing the rest of the passengers in the car to shriek.

“Dude, you introduced me to fanfiction,” Eliza said as she peered around Angelica to watch for impending doom.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ look at the road!”_ came a high-pitched screech from Thomas.

“I always knew it would end like this,” James said. “Leave me to die, I have too much paperwork to do.”

Hercules was on the verge of grabbing the steering wheel himself.

Angelica finally turned back around, and there was a quiet ‘dammit’ from James. It was moments like this that made Thomas understand why his doctor always encouraged him to spend time alone to control his blood pressure.

“Hey, we’re here!” Angelica said, making the sharpest left turn known to man and parking in the Washingtons’ driveway.

Thomas got out of the car, his legs shaky from the tension of the last thirty seconds. He peered at the house as he waited for the others to get out. Like everything else, it looked different in the light of day. The garden was beautifully maintained and Thomas honestly wanted to give Martha and George all his namesake houseplants in his apartment so they’d have a higher chance of survival. There was a small bird fountain in the centre of the front-yard, and a tiny blue wren was perched on it.

James bumped his shoulder against Thomas’, prompting him to start walking towards the house. Thomas complied. As Eliza rang the doorbell – which they could all hear loudly as it rang, but the Washingtons probably wanted to wake the dead at this point – a voice could be heard from inside. Thomas recognised it as John Laurens. And a high-pitched laugh followed, which sounded vaguely familiar… 

“Good afternoon,” George greeted them as he opened the door. Peering around at them, his smile became more genuine. “This is a large crowd.”

“We’re sorry to impose,” Thomas began.

“No, not at all!” George quickly reassured. “Come in. It’s nice to have the house lively.” There were deep lines in his face, almost as deep as the laughter creases. These past few months had been hard.

The group all dutifully removed their shoes as they entered, hanging their coats on the coat rack and leaving their bags behind.

“Gilbert and John are…” George furrowed his brow. “I actually have no idea what they’re doing.”

Ah, so that was the high-pitched laugh. Thomas almost laughed himself; it was about time he got involved in the matchmaking process.

They turned a corner, and Eliza – at the front of the group behind George – suddenly stopped and put her arms out to stop anyone (including George, who sighed resignedly but allowed it) from walking into the room. She pulled her phone out, opened up the Notes app, and typed out ‘We observe and then come up with a plan of action before going in’.

The others smirked at the message. George, for some reason, seemed to be involved in the matchmaking too, though he was more composed about his inner desire to get two young adults to date.

They peered in, heads comically in a line down the door, with Hercules at the bottom and on his knees. Eliza was quick to take the opportunity to sit on his back, but he seemed to take it in stride.

They could hear the conversation quite clearly. 

“...obviously wrong!”

“Laf...” A sigh came from John.

“You cannot _bite_ an ice cube to consume it! It ruins the teeth and gives you…how you say…brainfreeze.”

“You’re better at English than half the native speakers I know, don’t use that ‘how you say’ bullshit with me,” John said teasingly, leaning forward with his elbows on the kitchen counter. “And it’s a _perfectly legitimate_ way of eating ice cubes.”

“What the fuck,” James whispered softly. “You can’t _bite_ ice to eat it. This kid is nuts.”

Thomas had not been expecting such strong opinions on ice consumption, but he had to agree with James. 

Hercules shushed them.

“…and ice cream!” That was Gilbert.

“I bite ice cream too,” John said, shrugging.

Gilbert stared at him. “Heathen,” he hissed. He went over to the refrigerator and opened the door, leaning inside to the point where his entire head was in the freezer. Thomas was in awe of this fridge. How big must it have been to fit his brother’s massive head…

“What’re you doing?” John asked, coming to stand beside Gilbert and poking his head in as well. Thomas stifled a laugh. There were numerous cat videos he’d watched where this behaviour had happened.

“Looking for ice cream.” Gilbert’s voice was muffled. The group could hear him rifling through the contents of the freezer until there was a sudden sound of something dislodging and two voices cursing. 

“ _Coldcoldcold,”_ came from John as he quickly pulled his head away, shaking his body. There was a shower of small pieces of ice.

Gilbert emerged with a wide grin and a large box in his hand. His hair, too, was covered in little white flakes. “If you hadn’t moved the crabs, the ice wouldn’t’ve fallen on us,” he said, shaking his own head. Nothing fell: it all seemed to have melted into his hair.

He grabbed a bowl and spoon and scooped a massive serving into it. John propped himself up onto the counter, and swung his legs back and forth as he watched Gilbert move around the kitchen with a fond smile on his face. 

And then he frowned. “Is this…” He peered closer. “Oh my god.” 

“What?”

“It’s _oyster flavoured!_ ”

The matchmaking squad all turned their heads simultaneously towards George, who shrugged. “Martha enjoys it.”

“I’ll have to tell Dolley,” James murmured. “She tasted it once someplace and now she can’t stand any other ice cream.”

George nodded sagely, and was about to speak when Eliza waved her hand at him to quieten down, frantically pointing at the couple and mouthing ‘ _oh my god!!!’_. Of course Eliza could mouth silent exclamation marks. 

“…give it a try!” It seemed that Gilbert was still in the process of convincing John to try it.

John was still on the counter, his arms crossed over his chest and mouth clamped shut. Gilbert grabbed a spoonful and waved it around his face in what looked like the aeroplane move parents would make with difficult children. 

James got out his phone and began recording.

John first crossed his legs and backed further up the counter to get away from Gilbert, but he’d obviously underestimated the other man’s determination to get him to try ice cream without biting into it. Granted, soon there would be no chance to bite it, seeing how it was already beginning to melt.

Gilbert leapt up onto the counter and shuffled forward on his knees, somehow managing to keep the spoon balanced as he waddled forward. Those gymnastics classes must’ve been effective, Thomas mused as he watched. 

John reached the wall on the side of the counter, and he waited there with anticipation and barely contained fire in his eyes as Gilbert came closer. Their faces were inches away when a noise came from the matchmaking group’s side of the house.

“George! You didn’t tell me we had guests!”

It was Martha Washington.

The group frantically dispersed, trying to appear normal and quieten her, but the damage was done. John had the spoon in his mouth and was standing when they turned back around, Gilbert sitting like John had been five minutes ago. John’s face was slightly flushed and they were both avoiding eye contact with each other. Thomas now understood James’ desire to shove them down flights of stairs.

George walked into the kitchen casually as Martha approached them. “They just arrived,” he explained, glancing toward the couple shuffling awkwardly around the kitchen.

“Afternoon, boys,” Angelica announced as she entered, sensing that the others milling around the doorway weren’t going to budge anytime soon. She sauntered in and placed herself upon one of the barstools, and the rest of the crowd followed suit.

As Thomas watched, each person smirked at the two, causing them to glare. He adopted this trend and smirked at Gilbert, the expression on his face widening as he received a glare hot enough to power five buildings.

“So,” he began.

“Try this.” John shoved the ice cream container into his arms, and he flinched from the sudden cold. The artwork on the container was unique, to say the least: a massive oyster shell with light pink ice cream inside it where the gooey liquid would normally be. Thomas felt a distant sense of disgust, but it was ice cream so he decided to try it anyway.

The others were talking aimlessly as he grabbed a bowl and found a spoon. He joined James and John as they discussed tea.

“…looked like Smurf blood!” John was waving his arms wildly to enunciate his point (in some complex way, Thomas assumed). When Thomas approached them, he immediately zeroed on him. “Have you tried it yet?”

“Trying it now,” Thomas replied, spooning a considerable amount of the pastel pink concoction into his mouth.

John and James peered at him, and he felt his ears grow warmer at the scrutiny. “It’s kinda like strawberry but with a spicier sort of taste?” he finally said cautiously. Taking another spoonful, he hummed. “This is actually pretty good.”

James eyed him. “I’d ask to try it off you but you have germs and I could die. They’d have to write ‘Made it past birth and college only to perish at the clutches of oyster ice cream’ on my gravestone. It’d be dreadful.”

John snorted. “I think my parents would disown me again if I died from ice cream.”

At that statement, Thomas felt a strange sense of kinship with John, though he’d never been disowned. _Officially_ , his mind added traitorously.

“Jemmy, the last thing I had was coffee, which is a pure substance –”

James snorted. “That beverage you had was only a quarter coffee.”

“Coffee emerges from every battle in the mug victorious.”

John suddenly snapped his head to the side, looking at the clock on the wall. “I need to go check up on Alex.” Raising his voice, he addressed the entire group. “You guys wanna come with?”

There were murmurs of assent and the entire group – all six of them (George and Martha had left at some point) – went to the room Hamilton was in.

Thomas entered the room last; he was least entitled to be present here. As he stepped over the doorway and into the brightly decorated room, he felt a shift in the air. It felt almost familiar, like it knew him and he knew it. 

Angelica was standing in a corner with a blank look on her face. She had her phone out and was frantically typing and scrolling in intervals. Thomas went to stand by her as Eliza, Hercules, and Gilbert made their way to Hamilton’s bedside with John. James went to open the curtains; there was apparently something about sun exposure during comas making it easier for patients to recover.

“You okay?” Thomas asked Angelica quietly, making sure to keep his body facing hers but his gaze directed at John’s ministering. He saw Angelica’s head snap up from the corner of his eye, but paid no attention to it.

“Fine,” she said, in a voice that clearly indicated otherwise. Thomas remained quiet, knowing that if she was ready to talk, she would; pushing her would result in the opposite. He observed John taking a few samples form Hamilton, Eliza smoothing back his hair, Gilbert babbling to him in French that Thomas did his best to not instantly translate in his mind because he didn't want to feel like he was intruding, and Hercules sitting himself down in the chair alongside the bed with a bag of knitting gear. Apparently he'd begun some sort of project for Hamilton a few weeks before the incident. John would occasionally murmur instructions, which would be carried out by one of the people there. 

Finally, Angelica sighed. “It’s nothing, really. Just pressure from my parents. And work. And the sisters.”

Thomas nodded, still staring ahead. He knew what family pressure could be like.

“And it isn’t one thing in particular,” she continued, fiddling with the ring on her pinky. Thomas knew that it’d been a gift from her parents. He watched as she slid it off and played around with it, trying it on every finger. “The other day, Eliza forgot to go grocery shopping and I almost punched a wall because we were out of tomatoes. Am I the _only_ one living in that house who can be responsible? And our parents want us to go visit them next week, but they seem to forget that I have work. I can’t go like Lizzie and Peggy can.”

Sighing, she put the ring back onto its original finger and leaned back against the wall. “They still blame me for ‘letting’ Peggy move in with Burr, which they’re pissed about because they haven’t met him yet. How is it my fault if they decide to move in after dating _for two years_? And why haven’t they visited in two years to see them? Hell, Aaron’s gonna pop the question anytime now, just as soon as Alex wakes up.” She took in a shaky breath. “And… Thomas, I think I know who your gho—”

“Did his heart rate just spike?!” James suddenly shouted, his voice tinged with disbelief. Everyone’s head snapped in Hamilton’s direction and they all began heading there at once. John, who had been on the other end of the room near the sink, came over.

“Guys,” he called, raising his voice over the clamour, “chill!” Moving closer, he studied the device, and Thomas suddenly wished he’d taken medicine. What use would his profession ever be? 

“Okay.” John ran a hand over his face. “There was a sudden spike, but this is normal. We know he still has brain activity, and there’s a high chance that whatever is stimulating his brain to keep functioning found something interesting. It’s definitely a step in the right direction, but not too big a step.”

He glanced towards the door, face grimacing sympathetically. Following his gaze, Thomas saw the Washingtons standing there, George clutching Martha’s hand. She came over to the bed, and sat down in the now vacant chair. When she began caressing Hamilton’s hair, Thomas knew this was no longer a moment he should be present for.

He walked towards the door, pausing only to grip George’s shoulder tightly for a moment before continuing on. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that the rest – minus John – had followed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip the biggest challenge with writing this was that I kept trying to write academically bc I'm so used to it now
> 
> none of the medical stuff in this chapter has been researched so pls don't consider it to be legit. we're going to pretend this is an AU where all this stuff works and ppl can go into month long comas from carbon monoxide poisoning
> 
> The blue wren is in this story bc of this one that keeps wandering around our house with its mate and it sits by the side mirrors of the cars parked outside and pecking insistently at its own reflection and it's gr8
> 
> The ice cube conversation is the summary of a real conversation between [Lesty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesty) and I and feel free to comment your opinions lol
> 
> Historic fact of this chapter: Dolley Madison's fav ice cream flavour was oyster
> 
> The Smurf blood tea is a legit tea btw (just not by that name)...my friend (her parents run this tea store) always brings tea to school and there's this one kind that's blue?? (And yes I know that Smurf blood is thought to be white or purple but if you squash a Smurf...)
> 
> Hmu on [tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com) =)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it starts out happy and gets worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for panic attacks, and racist and homophobic comments

Getting into Angelica’s car was a sombre affair. They’d been planning the sleepover session for tonight, but the mood now was bleak as the group felt the absence of Hamilton.

Pulling into Hercules’ street and parking by the curb as he went to grab an overnight bag, Thomas felt the weight of the past few months settle heavier on his shoulders. Maybe Hamilton’s situation wouldn’t be affecting him as much as it was right now it they hadn’t parted on such animus terms… 

Before he knew it, Angelica was parking before the Schuylers’ house and Thomas was being poked in the side by James, telling him to get out. He blinked and yawned, and with a sly upturn of his lips, took his time in opening the door and swinging his legs around and -

And James had gotten out through the other door.

Seeing James’ smirk directed at him when he’d finally grabbed his bags and walked through the door was rewarding; James had been surprisingly withdrawn for the last few days and Thomas was concerned. Both his closest friends had been acting up and it was throwing him off kilter.

He moved along to the kitchen, where he found Eliza seated at the counter with Peggy standing on it, shuffling through the contents of the cupboards and occasionally passing something down to Eliza. Angelica was nowhere to be seen.

“Yo,” he said in greeting, hoping to not startle Peggy into falling. “Where should I dump my stuff?”

“The usual bedroom,” Peggy answered. “We’re having a matchmaker meeting –”

The doorbell rang.

“Right now,” Peggy finished, hopping off the kitchen counter and making her way to the door.

“Where’s Angelica?” Thomas asked, pulling out a Tupperware box and setting it by Eliza. Eliza immediately brightened up, spine straightening as she opened it up and breathed in the scent of cookies.

“Please never stop baking,” she mumbled through a mouthful of peanut and chocolate cookie.

“Did you just speak with your mouth full?” A voice from behind Thomas sounded and he jumped, turning as Angelica entered. She was in full Older Sibling mode, with her hair in a tight bun and a pen through it. Her eyeliner was sharp enough to kill three men, not just one, and the combination of her walrus pyjamas and bright red heels made quite a fashion statement.

Eliza swallowed hard, and Thomas winced in sympathy for her throat. “Nope,” she said, before promptly succumbing to a coughing fit. Thomas handed her a glass of water, seeing Angelica’s face shift back and forth from annoyance and concern. She definitely needed a break from responsibilities.

“I come bearing gifts.” Aaron walked in with Peggy, with a Tupperware in hand and a small backpack.

“More food!” Eliza cheered, sliding off her seat and rushing to take it off Aaron’s hands. Opening the container, she sniffed it curiously. “What is it?”

Aaron shuffled his feet self-consciously. “It was supposed to be brownies,” he started before pausing to glance over at Peggy, who’d somehow pulled her camera out and was filming on Snapchat, “and then I got a carrot craving and changed my mind.”

Eliza narrowed her eyes at him. “You mean to tell me…”

Aaron nodded. “Yup.”

Angelica sighed. “You put _carrots_ in a _brownie_?”

“It smells good,” Peggy defended, walking over to Eliza and grabbing a piece. Chewing slowly, her face adopted a thoughtful expression. “Not bad.”

“Compared to?”

“To the last time he tried to bake and ended up setting the kitchen towel and flower plant on fire.” _Were any plants safe?_ Thomas wondered, walking over to try a piece himself.

“I like it,” he said honestly after he’d taken a bite. “Chocolate and a shitload of sugar makes everything okay.”

“Hear, hear!” That was Angelica. She looked around critically, and said, “Okay, we’re all here now. Let’s start planning this thing!”

Which was how they found themselves sitting on Angelica’s massive bed, a coffee mug in her hand as she sat in the centre with perfect posture. Beside her on one side was Thomas, simply because he’d walked in early, and next to him the order went James, Aaron, Peggy, Eliza, Hercules, and then back to Angelica.

“Okay gang,” she took an elegant sip, “we’ve got _Moulin Rouge!_ ready to go, the popcorn’s waiting to be popped, and we’ve rearranged the room slightly to force them to sit practically on top of each other. Now we just need to work on the seating arrangement and sleeping arrangement.”

She placed her clipboard in the centre of the circle, and on it was a rough pencil drawing of the living room. The TV was on the wall, and there was a three-seater sofa opposite it (from experience, Thomas knew it could fit five easily). One side contained a love-seat, and the other had two massive armchairs.

“Okay,” she said. “We can’t let them sit on the loveseat, in case any of you were gonna suggest that. It’s way too big.”

“The armchairs would mean they’d be literally in each other's laps.” Hercules hummed thoughtfully. “But the sofa would fit like all of us. We need to move the loveseat out of the room.”

“Nah, that’d look suspicious, especially since we moved the beanbag pile,” Eliza countered. “So we wanted you,” she looked at Hercules, “to take up the entire loveseat with your knitting gear.”

Hercules smiled. “I can do that. But I get a popcorn bucket to myself.” 

“Fine.”

“Okay, that’s sorted.” Angelica quickly marked off the love-seat. “So now there are six of us and an entire sofa to fill. We need five people on the sofa and one loner on the armchair who doesn’t mind texting the rest of us through the entire movie and filming certain parts.”

Thomas shrugged. “I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

 

In all honesty, Thomas was bored out of his brain. He’d chosen to take on the role of spy so a) he could get a better seat and b) so he could have direct access to any and all blackmail content (he was still bitter at Gilbert for stealing his sparkly scrunchie).

But they were now more than halfway through the movie and the sauciest thing that had happened so far was when John had dropped a popcorn kernel between the two of them somewhere in the couch and there had been a brief grapple as the two tried to stop it from being crushed into the cushions. 

Thomas was incredibly done. He needed an intervention.

He opened up the messaging app on his phone.

>  
> 
> **Thomas:** im fcking bored do smthng 
> 
>  
> 
> **Queen Bee:** as the eldest here I vote to do nothing this is a g movie
> 
>  
> 
> **burrtheburr:** like what
> 
> **burrtheburr:** and I’m older than you

 

> **Queen Bee:** those 14 days don’t count

 

> **Thomas:** aNYthInG
> 
> **Thomas:** theyre just sitting there

 

> **MargarineJar:** I GOT AN IDEA

 

Thomas would take what he could get. He turned his head and gave Peggy a nod, and felt his inner spy nerd cheer at how inconspicuous he felt.

“’LIZA!” He suddenly heard her yell. A sense of foreboding filled him. “THROW A BIT OF POPCORN AT ME!”

Eliza, without glancing away from the screen, chucked a piece of popcorn in the general vicinity of her sister. She missed.

It went all the way over to John, who was sitting at adjacent to Peggy. Thomas couldn’t fathom how they’d say she ‘missed’ this throw.

To John’s credit, he neatly arched his neck upwards and caught the piece between his teeth, quickly swallowing it and raising his arms above his head in victory. The rest of the room tried to telepathically tell Gilbert to kiss him, but to no avail.

Instead, Gilbert jumped up and down in his seat, practically squashing John in the process. “I want to try!”

From previous experience, Thomas knew this was going to be a failure. He started recording.

Aaron threw the piece this time, and his aim was known by all to be terrible. He threw it and it headed directly for John. Thomas smirked. He didn’t know if Aaron had intended for this to happen, but it was definitely going to produce interesting results.

Gilbert had no mouth-eye coordination whatsoever, and he lunged left and right, up and down, in an attempt to do God-knows-what. At the very last minute, he flung himself to the centre of the armchair, managing to elbow John in the stomach as he opened his mouth as wide as possible.

The popcorn hit him forehead and dropped into John’s lap, where he promptly picked it up and popped it into his mouth. “That counts!” he announced, looking oddly proud of himself for someone who’d failed.

No one pointed out that he was still lying across John’s lap. Ignoring him, they went back to the movie. Thomas stifled a smile at the huff Gilbert gave at the lack of recognition he’d received.

 

* * *

 

_You’ve reached James Madison. Please leave a message._ Click.

Thomas sighed. He’d been meaning to confront his friend about whatever was bothering him, but work and responsibilities had piled up so high it’d been impossible to.

Pocketing his phone, he opened up the front door of the House and entered. He’d been here the previous day to prepare it for the client coming that day, but there was no harm in giving it a once-over.

Just as he was walking downstairs, having gone through the entire first floor, he felt a shift in the air and quickly schooled his face to hide his smile. “It’s you again,” he called. “Come to drive away another client?”

He’d brought a small whiteboard with him this time, having gotten the idea from a Tumblr post. Not that he used Tumblr. Bringing it out of his satchel, he placed it on the kitchen counter with a purple whiteboard marker.

Almost immediately, the marker started to write. The handwriting was messy but readable: _hell yeah I don’t want any of your snobby clients around._

Thomas allowed himself a snort. But just as he was about to reply, a _ping_ came from his phone. Frowning, he slid it out of his pocket. His mother was calling. 

He swallowed hard before answering.

“Hey, mum,” he greeted, voice stiff and uncertain. He felt the around him shift, almost curious, if that were a word he could associate with the air.

_“Thomas! How are you? It’s been so long, darling.”_

Yes. Yes it had been. Not that Thomas minded much. “I’ve been good. And you?”

_“You know me, always fine.”_

There was a short silence, in which Thomas waited for his mother to continue. She wanted something. There was no reason for her to call him instead of Gilbert.

_“Dear, I’ll be popping in for a visit this weekend, if that’s alright with you boys. I called Gilbert and he said to talk to you.”_

And there it was. Thomas felt himself paling at the prospect of having his mother visit their apartment. “Yes, this weekend’s fine,” he managed to get out. Just as he finished speaking, he heard the engine of a car drawing near. “Mum, I need to go. I’m showing a client around. Talk to Gilbert about the details.” And with that, he hung up.

Walking to the door, he quickly opened it, running a hand over his face and quickly regaining his composure. Never again, he promised himself, would he answer his mother’s calls during work hours.

He felt himself groan inwardly at the sight of his client. He was a portly man, dressed in a suit that was snug around the middle, which would’ve been fine had it not been for the ‘Make America Great Again’ badge stuck to it.

Of course he’d had to have a client like _this_ today.

“Good morning,” he greeted politely, stretching out his hand for the man to shake.

“’Mornin’,” the man replied in a gruff voice, glancing at him like he’d come from the sewers. “I was told I’d meet a ‘Thomas Jefferson’ here?”

“That’s me,” Thomas said nonchalantly, leading the way into the house and fighting every self-preservation instinct he had that told him to not let this man walk behind him.

The man harrumphed and Thomas was too busy keeping his heartbeat in check to feel any satisfaction.

He began to speak in his ‘tour voice’, handing him a booklet with the details of the building and going through each room. It was lucky he could probably do this tour in his sleep.

The man, to Thomas’ relief, stayed quiet for the majority of the ground floor. But upon entering the master bedroom, with its lavender feature wall and frilly bedsheet, he snorted. “This room is so gay,” he muttered, lazily walking around it. “If I do end up buying this place, I’ll have to change that or we’d be attracting fags by the dozen.”

Thomas took a deep breath, and willed himself not to punch this man. Or crawl into a corner and avoid the world for the next fifty years; he was rather conflicted at this point. “We discourage using any derogatory terms in a professional setting,” he said, moving on to the bathroom.

The man gave him a look of disdain. “So you’re a fairy too,” he said casually, eyeing Thomas in a way that made his skin crawl. “Geez, last time I work with you lot.”

Thomas clenched his jaw. “Would you like to continue with the house tour?” he asked, hoping for him to leave immediately and jump off a cliff.

Luck was not on his side. “Might as well,” the man said, examining a fingernail.

Thomas led him to the bathroom. “Good God, what _is_ that?!” he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose at the stony wall. Whirling around to face Thomas, he said, “Did you even do interior design?” and without pausing, added, “What am I thinking, _you_ lot going to uni…”

“Realtors aren’t the ones designing the houses.” He refused to give this man an answer to his blatantly racist comments. “If you have a complaint about a particular aspect of it, I suggest choosing another house.”

“Big words you use,” he commented snidely. “Compensating for something?”

“Not a brain, which you appear to be compensating for.” _Shit shit shit._

“What did you say?” The man drew himself up to his full height, and although Thomas was taller, he felt his hackles rise. 

Crossing his arms, he locked his jaw, not allowing himself to speak. The man opened his mouth, but Thomas only heard white noise. There was a faint ringing in his ears as his mind struggled to cope with the onslaught of the day’s events.

The man was still screaming something, turning rather red and adopting a tomato like appearance. Thomas had no idea what to do.

Just then, he felt a freezing breeze shift through him and his voice begin to speak without his permission. There was something inside his body controlling it, but his mind was in no state to drive it out. He surrendered to it, feeling as though he were watching a movie.

“Please leave. I won’t ask again. And know that we will never do business with you in the future.”

This was the work of his ghost. Thomas felt himself blocked off from access to his ears as the man left, mouth still moving but no sound reaching him. The lack of control to his body did nothing to assuage the panic he suddenly felt. There were beginning to be black spots in his vision as he struggled to free himself from the grip of the ghost, breaths coming in short gasps.

When he finally felt the ghost disappear from his body, he was too far in his head to give a damn. His head was spinning and he felt himself stumble as he found a wall to him left and slid down, not caring where he was as long as it was far away from prying eyes.

Thomas couldn’t hear anything over the racing of his heart and he tried to suck in a deep breath. He was shaking hard enough to make the table beside him wobble, but just as suddenly as the loud rattle had started, it stopped; there was a harsh screech as it was moved away. Thomas huddled himself farther into the corner, drawing up his knees to his chest and screwing his eyes shut.

Something cold settled on his knee. Thomas didn’t open his eyes, still trying to stop the world from closing in on him. But then the coldness spread to his hair, and he felt his breath stutter in his throat.

Then, the sound of spectacularly loud breathing started, and Thomas stopped breathing altogether. Then, just as suddenly as he’d stopped breathing, he realised something: there was no one else in the House; his ghost had possessed him to get rid of the assbucket. Therefore, this heavy breathing was his ghost.

Thomas drew in a lungful of air, then tried as hard as possible to match breaths with him. He didn’t know how long it’d been when he raised his head, blinking against rays of the setting sun. The whiteboard was sitting in front of him, along with a glass of water. There was remnants of ice clinging to the edges of the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason this chapter wasn't posted three days ago is bc it was so difficult to write the dick client in the last scene *gets pissed reading over the actions of a douche I wrote*
> 
> Fun fact: Burr really was 14 days older than Angelica
> 
> Hmu up on [tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com) and if you want more angst, go check out [this series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/797124) by [Lesty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesty/) and I =D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People find out shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a short chapter but I can't fit in the next scene bc then it'd be way too long
> 
> There's mouseover for the French

As much as he wanted to, Thomas didn’t avoid the House. He simply… prioritised the other houses he had to sell over this one. And maybe he was becoming too attached, because he found himself diverting people away from it to other ones.

Or maybe he was just avoiding the inevitable disaster that came with touring the House with clients. 

But because he had biweekly tours running, he had to go back and fix it up. Angelica went with him, for some unknown reason that she didn't feel the need to share.

“Did you bring the apples?” she called over her shoulder, unloading a box from his car.

“I think the house is sick of apples,” Thomas commented. He certainly was.

“When you say the house, do you mean the ghost, your opinion of what the house feels, or you?”

“All three.”

There was a sudden squeak followed by a crash from somewhere inside, and the two of them hurried to the kitchen - where it seemed that the sound had originated from. Stopping at the doorway, they were faced with a a broken glass on the floor, and words appearing on the brand new white refrigerator.

_Speak for yourself. I like the apples._

“You realise we have clients coming, don’t you?” Thomas stalked in, stooping down to pick up the bigger pieces of glass as Angelica let out an exasperated sigh and went to get a dustpan. “And you better have used a whiteboard marker on the fridge.”

There was the sound of a raspberry being blown, and Thomas swore he could feel spittle on the side of his face. “Eugh,” he cried, wiping it off. “Did you just spit all over me?!”

The fridge showed: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Angelica came back with a newspaper and tissues. “We didn’t bring a dustpan, because _why would we need a dustpan in an unused house_ ,” she glared at the fridge, “so we’re using these. And you’d better help!” The last part was said in a loud voice, directed to no particular area.

The glass on the floor suddenly swept itself onto the newspaper. Angelica smiled. “Thank you.” Turning to Thomas, she said, “Honestly, I don’t see why you had issues with him. He listens.”

“To you, maybe,” Thomas muttered.

His phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen. “Gilbert’s calling,” he told Angelica.

She nodded, giving him the non-verbal _go ahead_ signal.

Picking up, he was met with a loud screech. Wincing, Thomas immediately pushed the phone away from his ear until the sound had quietened.

“What the fuck was that?”

There was silence for about a second. And then, “Thomas!” followed by a nervous chuckle. “I must’ve accidentally called you. I’ve been busy.” 

“Busy? Doing what?”

“…baking.” 

Thomas eyebrows shot up. “Dude. No.”

“Why not? I’m following the recipe. And it smells edible.”

Running a hand through his hair, and grimacing when his fingers caught in a tangle, Thomas said, “Please tell me you’re not baking alone. I want to have an apartment to go back to.”

There was another shifty pause. “Hercules is here.”

“Can Hercules bake?”

“Hercules singlehandedly fed Alexander for a year when he first moved here,” came a different voice from the side. Gilbert must’ve had the call on speaker, Thomas surmised.

Angelica walked in with a crate of apples, and placed it on the kitchen counter. Thomas groaned inwardly. Placing his phone on speaker, he began distributing them to the stack of fruit baskets they had. “That doesn’t fill me with much confidence, seeing as how Hamilton looks like a malnourished chicken.” He immediately froze, wondering where the line was with insulting coma patients.

Thankfully, Hercules seemed to be okay with it. “Me cooking for him didn’t necessarily mean him eating it.” 

There was a mutter from Gilbert that Thomas couldn’t quite make out. “What was that?”

“He said,” Hercules clarified, slight confusion tinging his voice, “‘if that’s how you show your affection to your crushes, no wonder the Maria incident happened’.”

 _Oh my god._ Thomas was going to kill him. The temperature of the house fluctuated, but maybe that was Thomas’ imagination. Suddenly, something hit the side of his head. “Ow!”

“You like Alex?!” Thomas had almost forgotten Angelica was still in the room. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

From the phone, Hercules also joined in. “Wait, _you_ like _Alex_?” Gilbert’s laughter was loud and obvious in the background. 

Thomas could feel the sides of his face heat up, and the nervous rambling he’d worked years to keep out of his normal speech returned. “No! I don’t _like_ him—I haven’t even talked to him in months—and he’s—” He stopped talking; it was only making the situation worse.

Angelica raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms in that judgemental way of hers. Thomas let out a breath, running his hands over his face.

There was suddenly a squawk from the phone. “Did he just—he did!”

The two of them crowded around the device. “What happened?” Angelica demanded. 

Hercules answered, voice sounding a lot closer than before. “It’s Alex. There was this spike in his heart rate and he kinda moved his face.” 

Thomas felt a chill run down his spine. “Did you seriously buttcall me to discuss my _non-existent_ crush on Hamilton _while he’s in the room_?”

Gilbert came on. “Thomas, he hasn’t reacted to anything any of us have been saying all this time. He might not even be able to hear you.”

“Gilbert, I thought you said you were going to bake!”

“I never said where.” 

Thomas could practically feel his hair going grey. Was there any way to disown siblings?

“What do you mean, his face moved?” Angelica demanded, kneading her hands tightly before moving on to twisting the ring.

“It just… twitched. Like that time Burr convinced him to eat Vegemite by itself. Only less disgust and more _what the fuck_ ,” said Hercules, his voice speeding and slowing, showing that only half his attention was on the conversation.

There was a moment of silence, where Angelica and Thomas waited anxiously, before Gilbert’s voice came through the speakers. “I have spoken to John, and he says that this might mean that Alex is on his way back.” He sounded like he was in shock. And Thomas sort of knew how he felt: he couldn’t imagine life like it used to be, without the constant thought of Hamilton’s lifeless body hanging over him like a cloud. If it hadn’t been for that _stupid_ argument, maybe he’d be more at peace with the thought of him dying…

“Okay, we have to hang up now,” Angelica spoke up, moving her face closer to the phone. Her face was a blank slate. “We have adult work to do.”

“Your ‘adult work’ is rearranging apples and drinking all the coconut water in the house,” Gilbert retorted, hanging up before Thomas could argue back. 

When he looked up, Angelica was smirking at him. “What?” he asked self-consciously, resisting the urge to break eye contact.

She simply shook her head, still smiling. “Nothing. It’s just that this whole thing,” she waved her hand, “has just proven a hypothesis of mine.”

And no matter what Thomas tried – bribery, threats, more bribery – she wouldn’t budge. And the ghost was strangely absent too.

 

* * *

 

The minute he opened the apartment door, Thomas sensed something _off_. Again. He shook his head, trying to remain calm. God, he hated this feeling.

“I’m home,” he called as he entered the kitchen. There was silence. And then… 

“We’re in here!” It was Gilbert, calling from what sounded like his room.

Thomas furrowed his brow at the ‘we’. Dumping his bag on the benchtop – if Gilbert had expected him to be neat and orderly for the guest, he should’ve told him before – he made his way further into the apartment.

The door was closed, but Thomas didn’t bother knocking when he entered in the knowledge that Gilbert knew he was coming. Cautiously cracking it open, he stepped into the room. For once, it seemed that Gilbert had done some sort of cleaning; the usual piles of clothing in the space between the closet and the bed was gone, and the piles of products that littered his desk and bedside table were in orderly rows.

The only thing in the room that was, in any way, untidy, was the mountain of feather boas in every colour and possibly size, sitting right next to the door. Thomas hated feather boas; they made his nose tickle.

“Um,” he said eloquently when he entered.

“Hi,” Hercules greeted him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He was seated on the floor, leaning against the bed with his legs folded under him broad build, with Gilbert opposite him, back against the tallboy.

“Thomas,” Gilbert began in a cajoling tone, “don’t be mad…”

“Do I need to be drunk for this?” Thomas muttered, closing the door behind him.

“ _Have_ you been drinking? Maybe this should wait…”

“No, I’m completely sober. What’s wrong?”

“Can you…sit? You look tall from this angle.”

“I’m tall from _every_ angle.”

“True,” muttered Hercules, who’d been watching their exchange silently.

Thomas sat cross-legged in front of the door, and waited for the two of them to explain themselves.

“So,” Gilbert looked to Hercules, hands fiddling with the end of a feather boa, “you know how last spring—”

“Wait,” Thomas interrupted, “did you kill another plant? Break something? Finish all the coconut water or mac ’n’ cheese?” When Gilbert shook his head at each of these, he continued, “Then what’s so much wor—did you invite Mum to stay longer?”

“No! I wouldn’t do that without talking to you!”

Any stress Thomas had been feeling was gone. Whatever it was Gilbert had gotten himself into now would be fine…

“I adopted a cat.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?!”

“I adopted a cat,” Gilbert repeated. “A few weeks ago, actually.”

Thomas leaned his head back until it touched the door, hitting it against the wood repeatedly. “ _Oh my god.”_

“Actually, she moved in that first day when you met Hercules at the apartment?”

“Are you telling me,” he drew in a deep breath, “that there’s been a cat in the apartment for weeks and _you didn’t tell me?”_

“Um. Yes?”

“God, I’m going to go prematurely grey and it’ll be your fault. I’ll get _wrinkles_ and all the coconut water _in the world_ won’t be able to save my flawless skin.”

“I stocked up on coconut water!”

“You mean, you intended on giving me premature wrinkles?”

“As a stress relief.” Gilbert seemed to have realised that he was out of the woods, and relaxed slightly.

"Jesus, you _adopted_ a _cat_. Where even is the cat? Have you kept it in here this whole time?” Thomas still couldn’t believe this was happening. He was lucky they owned the apartment rather than rented it. 

Gilbert shifted slight, changing position. “She’s in the living room sleeping now, actually. Her name’s Pollywaffle. And she’s been everywhere.”

Thomas was nodding along, until Gilbert got to the end, and then his mind suddenly ground to a halt. “Wait,” he said slowly. “ _Everywhere?_ She’s been in my room?”

Gilbert shrugged. “We slept in there when you came home hella drunk that one night,” he said nonchalantly. “Do you want to come meet her?”

Before Thomas knew it – still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there’d been a cat in his room and he hadn’t even noticed – he was being pulled to his feet and shoved out of the doorway.

Gilbert chattered excitedly as they made their way to the living room, Hercules following behind. “Vous n’avez aucune idée combien de temps j’ai attendu pour vous deux à rencontrer! Elle n’est finalement pas un passager clandestin!”

And then they were in the living room and there was a bundle of fur stretching on the rug on the floor and Thomas _melted_. He’d always had a fondness for cats, not that he had ever bothered asking for one as a child, knowing that half his family were allergic.

Pollywaffle was big, and Thomas surmised that half her mass was purely fur. Massive, fluffy, ginger fur. She would’ve reminded him of Garfield from the back if it hadn’t been for how strongly her tail resembled a feather duster. 

“Polly!” Gilbert called, making sure to go around to face her before touching. “Look who it is!”

The cat ignored him. Thomas let out a snort of laughter as he crouched down beside Gilbert and saw Pollywaffle’s face for the first time. To say that it didn’t match the rest of her body would be an understatement. One side of her face had a large scar down the side, just skimming past one eye and down to the corner of her mouth, making it twist in an ever-present grimace. The other side showed an intelligent gaze that stared at Thomas, drawing back slightly from him and towards Gilbert. 

Gilbert reached out slowly and stroked her back, smiling when she finally began to purr. “She had bad owners,” he said in explanation, but making sure to maintain a neutral tone.

“We found her a few months ago,” Hercules said. “It took a surprisingly short time for her to start trusting people again, but she’s still young. And then Laf came over and…” he trailed off, shrugging. 

Thomas knew what (or rather, who) Gilbert had seen in Pollywaffle. He felt a furious rush of anger flood him as he thought of the kind of person who could do something like this to an innocent creature. He copied Gilbert’s movements after a questioning glance to both him and Hercules, who nodded in encouragement. Slowly stretching a hand out to Pollywaffle, he let her sniff at him suspiciously before stroking her. Thomas felt a smile stretch across his face when she began purring.

“I should go,” Hercules said after a while.

“You could stay the night,” Gilbert said. “It’s late.”

Thomas nodded. “The guest room should be set up.” They had a fairly large apartment for the two of them.

Hercules relented after a moment’s urging.

But instead of heading straight to bed, the three of them settled around the cat on the living room floor, turning on the TV to see what terrible late-night shows they could watch while they waited for sleep to catch up to them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> "Vous n’avez aucune idée combien de temps j’ai attendu pour vous deux à rencontrer! Elle n’est finalement pas un passager clandestin!" = You have no idea how long I've waited for you two to meet! She's finally not a stowaway!
> 
> Shoutout to:  
> \- My [friend](https://www.something-sarcastic-and-ironic.tumblr.com/dashboard) who helped me come up with the details for the cat. A pollywaffle is this Australian chocolate bar that was basically a wafer cylinder filled with marshmallow and coated in chocolate. Nestlé stopped making them in like 2009 ;~;
> 
> \- [ShiroWolfy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiroWolfy/pseuds/ShiroWolfy) for guessing that the thing in Herc's bag was a cat in chapter 4. (yes it's cliche af but I love cats so I'm gonna live vicariously through this story)
> 
> Hmu on [tumblr](https://www.fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/dashboard) =D


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the moment you've all been waiting for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't realise the summary was a ham ref till after i typed it out and then i couldn't be stuffed figuring out a different cryptic summary so you're all stuck with it
> 
> So this chapter is like one of the milestones chapters where shit changes big time (aka I finally develop a plot for this plotless fic how are there actual readers honestly I love every one of you for sticking around fOR 10 CHAPTERS)
> 
> School's back so I'm back to the one-update-per-wk-except-when-I'm-dying-of-assignments schedule =D

“Good morning!” Thomas greeted the first few people standing outside the House waiting for the open house touring to begin. He squinted at the group, the sun’s rays glaring into his face. It seemed like it would be a stiflingly hot day. He glanced at his watch. “Let’s wait a few more minutes for the stragglers, shall we?”

When there were no angry mutterings, Thomas’ chest eased. This seemed like it would be a good group.

A small child stood holding her mother’s hand, dressed in a massive pink tutu and a Spider-man mask, complete with bright green gumboots. Thomas had never seen colours clash more marvellously, but he wished his mother had let him dress so freely when he had been her age. 

Leaning down, he smiled at her. “I love your tutu,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

“Target,” she replied, stepping a little closer. “I got it for my birthday!” She enunciated every sound perfectly, impressing the adults standing beside her watching their interaction.

“She’s such a dear!” an elderly couple commented to her mother, smiling in a grandparent way. But the way they looked at the girl was with sadness, and Thomas wondered if maybe they had never reached the stage of grandparenthood.

“Thank you. She’s amazing,” her mother replied warmly, peering down at her daughter with a fond gaze.

“Yes, I’m amazing,” the girl agreed solemnly, causing those around her to _aww_ and say, “yes you are!”. This kid was getting one hell of an ego boost, Thomas thought in amusement. Coming from a large family, he’d been around young children his whole life and had no qualms with spending time with them. 

He stood back up, wincing at the protesting muscles in his legs, left from an impromptu workout session. He was getting too old for life. “Let’s head in,” he announced. “I’m Thomas, by the way.” Introducing himself was a nice way to start a tour, he’d learnt from early on. It helped people get past the intimidating look of a person wearing a suit.

“This is the formal lounge room,” he said. “It’s about five by four metres, a decent size. And let’s be real here, who uses this space?”

There was a small smatter of laughter, and Thomas ticked a mental box on his mental checklist. He’d created his mental checklist as a joke just so he could boast to himself after a good day, but it had stuck. The one box he hadn’t ticked off for this house yet was ‘getting an offer’.

“The apples on the coffee table, like our houses, are fresh, so feel free to take one if you’re feeling peckish,” he called, grinning. Adults were honestly just like children – give them a free snack and their manners and temperament would improve.

A man in a dark tuxedo and perfectly groomed beard and hair grabbed one. He bit into it, making the perfect _crunch_ noise, and Thomas couldn’t help staring. It was like a scene out of an advertisement. The man raised his hand, asking, “What’s the total land area of this…”

 

* * *

 

“I like the staircase.”

“Yeah, same. First house I’ve seen in this country that doesn’t have tiny, narrow steps.”

Thomas smiled. He had the same opinion.

“…the colour is shit.” 

Thomas tuned out this particular conversation, hoping the house would, too. Honestly, people these days had no—his thoughts came to an abrupt halt. He’d been thinking of the House as a sentient object again. Then he frowned; where was the ghost? He hadn’t sensed _anything_ from it so far and it was beginning to ~~worry~~ throw him off.

And usually he targeted people who insulted the House, much to Thomas’ satisfaction.

“Oh shit, not enough room…damn it, Belinda, why did you think seven kids was a good idea…”

“Gary, love, the backyard is big enough for them to have a play pen and little shed outside to sleep in.”

Thomas fought to keep his expression in check as he realised these ‘kids’ weren’t human. (He missed the sound of the ghost’s laughter in his ears – and his only, seeing as no client had ~~run out screaming~~ commented on it yet.)

“Okay, crew, we’re heading into the second bedroom now. This room faces east, so nice light. It’s the same size as the first bedroom, and has a built-in cupboard as well.”

The room was furnished, like the rest of the house. There was a bunk bed by the window – which honestly filled Thomas’ five-year-old self with envy, and maybe they should get a bunk bed for their spare room in the apartment – with a small desk opposite it. Colourful rugs, adorning depictions of children’s cartoons, were splashed around the floor. If this were Thomas’ room, he would use them to play ‘the floor is lava’.

“If we wanted to buy the house with the furniture, how much extra would you say it’d be?”

Thomas was used to getting this question. “I’m sorry, but we don’t sell houses fully furnished. For any amount,” he added, seeing another person open their mouth. They closed it immediately after his response, and he gave himself a check in the ‘anticipated a client’s question’ box.

“Okay, downstairs now… to the backyard.”

Thomas only took clients outside on particularly good days – and depending on whether he liked the group. He knew he was being picky about the kind of people he wanted to be selling the house to, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He opened the sliding door that led to the porch, and stood to the side as the people filtered through. There was the typical ‘oooh’ and the not-so-typical ‘this shit’s the bee’s knees!’ that the sight of the garden received. (Box ‘weird saying’ checked).

“The yard wraps around the house. There are beds set up all around the two sides, and right now they’ve got tomatoes and spinach – and yes, we do harvest the food here, and donate it to the local orphanage.”

It was surprising that the ghost had never wasted any of the food in or around the house. Thomas forced himself to stop musing the quirks of his ghost as he showed off the house to the eager (and actually quite friendly) group. Definitely a step-up from his previous client. 

Thomas’ smile grew at the impressed _huh_ he heard. He moved around to the other side of the house. “The house also has solar panels, and you’ll find all the information on them in your booklets. Let me tell you, they’re _great_. Incredibly sustainable. I have a friend,” he didn’t have a friend, “who generates enough energy in the summer to not have to pay their electricity bill.” While the story may have been a total lie, the facts were accurate.

This time the _huh’_ s were more awestruck, and Thomas could see them mentally calculating the amount of money they would save.

And finally…

“Here we have,” he paused for suspense, “a great open space!” He paused when there was laughter, and then continued, “We were originally going to put a pool into this space, but decided against it because of our architect’s grandniece, whose parents had gotten this massive pool in their backyard because of her seahorse that she barely used. And then she went straight into a baseball phase and had nowhere to practise.”

Thomas hated pools. He had been forced to learn to swim as a child – safety reasons – and while a lot of his siblings took to it literally like a duck to water, he couldn’t shake the feeling that water was bad news. Bodies of water were fine to admire from a distance, but for some reason, his mind associated getting in with death, drowning, suffocation, et cetera.

He wasn’t much fun at pool parties.

The last of the clients walked out, some even grabbing a few forms to fill in – not that Thomas trusted these; they all looked like the type who blindly went in and applied to every house in their budget simply because they desperately needed the house. And this house was fairly expensive.

Thomas was finishing up a few notes for his paperwork of this session when there was a frantic knocking at the door. Frowning, he placed the pen down and turned to the door. If he heard another knock then he’d—

There was another knock, and Thomas sighed, going to answer the door.

“I’m so sorry! The traffic was hell and the GPS decided to die so I had to use my _phone_ which doesn’t do well under pressure and honestly, it’s like today’s jinxed,” a knock on the wood of the door, “and I know I’m incredibly late but—”

“Come on in,” Thomas opened the door wider and gestured inside, “and don’t worry about it. Everybody has those days.”

The man stepped inside. He was shorter than Thomas, with dark hair in a fairly average haircut. The only thing not-so-average about him was the amount of rambling he did.

“Did you just quote _Hannah Montana_?” he asked suspiciously as Thomas led him through to the first room.

There was a moment of surprise when Thomas felt incredibly attacked at his reference being noticed. “You’re honestly the first one who’s gotten that reference in the whole time I’ve been a realtor. Which is actual years.”

“Damn, these people don’t know what they’re missing. I only got into it because of my kid, though, so kudos to him. This is a damn swanky room, by the way.”

There was a giggle in Thomas’ ear, and relief swept through him like a wave. So he hadn’t been completely abandoned. The fear of being avoided or ignored because of the incident with the last client slowly disappeared. 

His smile grew, and he led the man to the kitchen/dining room/living room area. “That’s certainly one way to describe it. And I’m being completely rude. I’m Thomas Jefferson.” He held out his hand.

The man shook it. “Harry Spengler. And I gotta say, this place is great so far. Not for me, though, for my cousin. He’s moving in with his family. Or soon-to-be family. He just got married.”

Thomas didn’t know what to do with all this information, but settled for humming in the right places, which seemed to be enough for the man. He continued, “Name’s Jonathan Bellamy, actually. He’ll be the one with the name on the form, so you might as well know it now.”

There was the sound of the kitchen tap being turned on, and as the two of them turned and watched, a spoon from Thomas’ satchel floated out and moved itself beneath the spray of water. Thomas, immediately realising what was about to happen, ducked beneath the counter and prayed he wouldn’t get his new shoes wet.

His client wasn’t so lucky, and Thomas probably should’ve thought about dragging him under. As he watched, Harry Spengler received a face-full of water. He stood there spluttering, eyes screwed shut, and Thomas fought the urge to laugh. No matter how nice a client was, no one appreciated being laughed at when they became the target of a ghost.

But Harry’s reaction was completely different to any Thomas had had before. “Holy shit. You got yourself a fucking haunted house?” 

Thomas stared, speechless.

And then the whiteboard floated in.

 _Hiya_. _Thomas dw this dude stinks of ghost all over._

Harry walked over to the nearest wall and hit his head against it, muttering, “Please let this be a dream, please let this be a horrible, horrible dream…” 

“Um, Harry?” Thomas called out hesitantly, “are you alright? Would you like a glass of water? Actually, I’ll get you a towel.”

“What I want, Thomas, is to never see another supernatural creature ever again. _Is that too much to ask?!”_ The last part of this was directed toward the ceiling.

Walking up to him, Thomas handed Harry a towel. “What did he mean when he said you stink of ghosts?”

Harry sighed. “I was in this group where we went around the country fixing people’s ghost problems. We broke up ages ago. I’ve moved on from that life.” He moved the towel over his head, drying his dripping hair and face.

Thomas nodded.

“Is your ghost bad? Do—” 

The whiteboard moved over, and writing appeared. _I’m a Caspar_. _Unless you’re annoying bc then I can be Peeves._

Harry snorted. “A ghost with pop culture references. What’s your name, ghosty?”

The board began to show words: _Alexander Hamil_

But then they were quickly wiped out and read ‘ _shit. I didnt mean to tell u_ ’.

It was fairly obvious who the ‘you’ was in this situation. Thomas’ stomach dropped as his mind comprehended the magnitude of what it’d just learnt. The ghost, _his_ ghost, the fucking poltergeist that’d haunted the house for _months_ , was Alexander Hamilton.

This person had witnessed _everything_ , from Thomas’ panic attacks to his relationships with his mother to – and now Thomas emplored the universe to open up and swallow him whole, just minus the memories – him practically admitting his crush on the man.

God, Hamilton would never let him live—wait. “Wait,” Thomas said aloud. “Hamilton?” He had to double check. He had to make sure, before he asked.

_yo. I guess you have questions_

Harry looked at Thomas. “You know this kid?”

Thomas debated on how much to tell him, but what did it matter? “Yeah. We’re… we know each other.” He turned to the board. “You’re damn right I have questions.”

Harry glanced between him and the whiteboard. “Yeah, I’m out. Sorry, man, but I left that life behind _long_ ago. But,” his voice dropped to a whisper and he dug around in his suit, “if you need to get rid of the spirit, call thi—”

“No!” Even Thomas was surprised at his outburst. He tried to fix his blatant mistake. “I mean, I know him. And he isn’t dead.”

Harry gave Thomas a look, and smirked. “You know, we had a case once. Worst case, probably – we lost one of our own. But the thing that saved us? Gay love.” He placed a hand on Thomas’ shoulder and looked solemnly into his eyes. “Gay love can pierce through the veil of death and save the day.” 

Thomas nodded, wondering how many screws this man had lost during his ghost-hunting life. “Thanks for the…advice.”

“No worries. I’ll see myself out. You two have fun.” And with a cheerful wave, he exited.

Thomas stood there staring after him for a moment, before remembering the current situation. Nerves churning in his gut made him feel nauseous, his heart beating rapidly like he'd just run up a ten-story building. He turned to the board – because it felt _weird_ to not have something to look at when addressing his ghos—Hamilton. 

“You’re in a coma, did you know that?” he said finally, running a hand over his face. 

 _Yes I know that. I did try to get back into my body but I keep floating thru._  

“So you went back to the Washingtons’?”

_Yea but its hard getting inside. Too many animals and plants. Kept killing the plants and Moosey wouldnt let me get past._

“I should tell them you’re here, but I don’t think it’d help. Might make them sadder.” Thomas dropped into a stool, resting his hands on the counter and his head on top of them. He looked up when the squeak of the whiteboard marker stopped.

_What if I want to say goodbye?_

Thomas’ throat closed up, and when he opened his mouth to reply, nothing came out. And then he grew angry, the emotion festering in his gut before he finally opened his eyes and glared at the whiteboard. “That’s bullshit, Hamilton. You don’t get to decide you don’t wanna fight anymore. Do you know what they – your friends, your _family_ – have been doing this whole time?” 

Thomas didn’t wait for a response, powering on. “They’ve been at _your_ bedside, waiting for _you_ to wake up. How fucking dare you decide you want to _say goodbye_ and leave them?” He paused for a moment, and said, in a softer tone, “Do you know how long Gilbert has spent at the Washingtons’? More than the time he spends in class and home combined. He wouldn’t leave your side in the hospital. Do you know what Angelica’s been doing this whole time, trying to balance work and family and still supporting her sisters because you’re _in a goddamn coma_ and they need that? Peggy and Gilbert have half moved into your place! So don’t talk to me about saying goodbye. You don't get to die now.”

There was no response, and the chilly undercurrent in the air slowly disappeared. Thomas let out a breath. Standing up, he grabbed his files and satchel and walked out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol who can guess where Harry's from? 
> 
> pun in paragraph 3 completely intended i regret nothing
> 
> I feel like I'm projecting all my house related opinions,,,, also everything in this fic is based on houses in Australia bc I feel like even if I researched, it wouldn't seem as legit bc I don't have firsthand knowledge
> 
> also,,,, i just hit?? 30k words (it only shows it in my word doc not ao3 someone pls explain)???? which is insane like i had no idea i could actually commit to a story like this o.O


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back at the House...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (original summary was 'shit happens' but i'm p sure i've already used that once so,,,)
> 
> rip i've had this chapter written since like saturday purely bc i was (am) procrastinating my psych asg ;~; so hope u all like it /looks at my one reader lol/

“Come in.”

Thomas opened Angelica’s door and walked in, closing it behind him. Without a word, he walked robotically to her couch and collapsed into it, falling face-first and somehow managing to land on a fluffy pillow rather than sequinned one.

Angelica’s office was…interesting. Her couch was puce coloured, with pillows in various neon shades piled on it. Her walls were a combination of art done by herself and her siblings, and art purchased – they all had “hecka deep meanings” that Thomas “couldn’t hope to understand”. The small bookcase by the wall held a small collection – compared to the one in her house – of books, and a large collection of cacti. Thomas was concerned with the prevalence plants had in his life.

“Rough day?” Angelica asked, still typing. She was like a female version of Hamilton, only with more living blood relatives and a healthier lifestyle.

At the thought of Hamilton, Thomas’ mood went further downhill, and he let out a groan.

“You sound like a dying cat,” Angelica commented helpfully. While Thomas would never admit it, her typing was actually a help; it provided the background noise he needed.

Turning his head to the side to look at her, he blinked slowly. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay.” She didn’t look at him, and for the first time he wished she would.

Sitting up, Thomas kicked off his shoes and drew his knees into his chest. “Come here?” His voice came out weaker than he’d expected, and he inwardly winced.

Angelica immediately looked up, frowning slightly. She stood up from her desk and walked over to him, grabbing a throw rug from the couch handle and placing it over Thomas. Mimicking his position, Angelica nodded at him.

“I…” Thomas had no idea how to tell her. “You know the ghost?”

“Yeah, your ghost.” Angelica nodded and Thomas fought the urge to correct her. He would never be his ghost, and it was pointless to imagine a world where he was.

“I know who he is.” He looked at his friend, trying to read her face. But Angelica stayed impassive.

“Who is he?” she asked evenly.

“Ha—” His voice choked off and coughed in an attempt to cover it up. “Hamilton,” he whispered. “It’s fucking Hamilton.”

Angelica didn't say anything.

“You’re not surprised,” Thomas stated hollowly.

“Thomas…” Angelica ran a hand through her hair. Thomas stared at her nails, which, contrary to the image she liked to project, weren’t perfectly manicured. They weren’t even perfect: Angelica had a bad habit of biting her fingernails when she was nervous, and had never been able to shake it. “I suspected it.”

“And you never thought to tell me?!” He was suddenly on his feet, rug flung aside. His back to Angelica, he pressed his palms into his eye sockets.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was _sure_ and even then… how do you tell someone that your comatose friend is the ghost haunting the house they’re trying to sell?”

“Holy shit.” A voice from the doorway made Thomas and Angelica freeze simultaneously. “Hamilton’s the ghost?”

“James! Close the door, you wonky lampshade!” Angelica snapped. Strong emotions, whatever they may be, tended to appear as anger with her. “Announce it to the entire office, why don’t you…”

James closed the door, and took a seat beside Angelica. Thomas, unable to take the sudden silence in the office, began pacing, running his hands through his hair from time to time.

“You know, this is perfect,” James commented. For some reason, he sounded like he was watching his favourite soap opera.

“How,” Thomas drawled, “is this anywhere near perfect, Jemmy?”

“You like him.”

If Thomas had been eating or drinking, he’d’ve choked. His steps faltered and he half-tripped over a stray pillow on the floor. “Excuse me?”

“You like him,” James repeated, leaning back against the couch with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Even if you can’t wake him up with true love’s—”

“The man is in a _coma_ —”

“Well, d’you think Philip woke Aurora up from her ten minute nap?”

Angelica smirked. “I knew those Disney marathons had an effect on you. But seriously, Thomas, you could convince him to _wake up_ now. You could find out why he _hasn’t_ woken up—”

“He said he tried to, but couldn’t get back in his body,” Thomas muttered.

“Well, maybe his body wasn’t ready _then_.” Angelica was somehow in Optimism Street and would not change lanes.

“Angie,” Thomas said tiredly, finally stopping and turning to face her, “he said he might like to say goodbye.”

Angelica fell silent, her face showing nothing but her eyes betraying her emotions. She blinked rapidly.

And then James spoke. “That’s not up to him to decide. John said he could wake up any day now, right?” At Angelica’s nod, he continued, “So now that we know he’s not brain-dead, we just need to hit the books and figure this shit out. We aren’t giving up without a fight, and he’s _Hamilton_. All he _does_ is fight.” He placed an arm around Angelica’s shoulders, and she leaned into him.

Thomas came around to sit on James’ other side, resting his head on James’ shoulder. There was a twist in his gut whenever he thought about going back to the House and facing Hamilton and the whole situation, but with these people, it was better.

“Do we tell the others?” he finally asked, voicing another concern. “Gilbert knows my ghost problem, and so does Peggy…”

“Not yet,” Angelica said firmly. “Let’s wait awhile.”

  

* * *

 

There were occasions where Thomas hated his job with a passion. Such as now, when he had to walk into the House and face a ghost of his comatose crush and once-frenemy-now-almost-nothing, he wished he’d gone with his dream job of…well, anything else, really.

Maybe a teacher, but the pay was terrible, and he wasn’t willing to bear that, no matter how much he adored children. His snowboarding dreams were also a no: what if he became haunted then? He’d certainly die. And while he may’ve once been talented enough for a musical career with a violin, he was no longer able to play competitively due to his wrist injury.

Listing career options that were no longer options was depressing, and Thomas waved the thought aside as he entered the doorway resignedly. And then he paused, and sniffed.

The scent that surrounded the house was Hamilton. It was Hamilton all over. Suppressing an urge to claw at his throat – _how was he supposed to be around a house that smelled of him all day?_ – he walked stiffly to the kitchen counter. There was probably a mess there he need— 

His satchel was moving.

 _Shit_.

Opening it, he groaned. “Pollywaffle, _why_?”

Pollywaffle mewed at him in response, licking a paw delicately, as if to say _because I can_.

Thomas had half a mind to call Gilbert and get him to pick up the cat – he had clients coming, goddamn it – but remembered he had some important exam.

He didn’t want to do this, but his job mattered more than what he wanted. “Hamilton!” he called.

Immediately, a chill breeze flooded through the room and Thomas shivered, taking Pollywaffle out of the bag and holding her to his chest. The whiteboard appeared in front of Thomas moments later.

_ur back_

Before Thomas could reply, there was a hiss from his arms as his adopted cat stood up straight, fur rising all over her body. Thomas could surmise, just from the amount of fur currently in his face, that she probably looked like a Sycamore seed.

“You’re scaring my cat,” he called, wincing when Pollywaffle dug her claws into his arms. He hoped she wouldn’t poke a hole through his shirt – it’d be hard to explain to the clients.

_i think its just my presence_

Even through writing, Thomas could practically hear the cocky, almost flirty tone in which Hamilton delivered the line. He let out an aggravated sigh. Walking over to the couch, the cat still hissing in his arms, he sat down.

Pollywaffle now stood in his lap, hissing at the coffee table, where the whiteboard now hovered. Thomas grew concerned when he saw it teetering slightly, but paid no attention to it. Maybe Hamilton was just running low on ghost food.

“Okay, Polly,” he got the cat to face him, “this is Hamilton. He’s perfectly harmless. He’s really short—”

A pillow whacked Thomas on the head.

Unruffled, but slightly worried at how he was to go about explaining this to Pollywaffle, Thomas continued, “And he’s going to look after you while I do my job.”

_wait what_

Thomas ignored him.

_thomas no I cant look after the cat what if it dies_

“Hamilton,” Thomas explained, in a voice he had last used on his niece and nephew, “you’re there to make sure she _doesn’t_ die, so if she does, it’ll be your fault. Gilbert will never forgive you.”

The lights went spastic, turning on and off for five seconds. The taps began shooting water. The kitchen chairs made horrendous screeches against the wooden floor. Thomas’ cat stood stock still in his lap, quivering slightly.

Thomas waited patiently for Hamilton’s temper tantrum to finish. When everything finally went back to normal, he said, “Now that you’re done behaving like a five-year-old, I need you to come outside with me for a second.”

_why_

_thats what they say before they take you out to kill u_

“You’re a ghost, Hamilton.”

_still_

Thomas walked over to the pantry – which, for some reason, stored real food – and grabbed the flour. He left the cat inside – who knew where she’d go if he took her to the backyard? – and walked to the ‘great open space’.

“Hamilton!” he called, waiting for the whiteboard to appear.

It floated towards him slowly. i _ve never been out here b4_

“Why not?” Why would he not want to leave the house? 

_reminded me of Martha_

Thomas didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he opened the flour. “Okay, stand still and hold the board out in front of you, about a ruler-length away from your chest…”

The board moved slightly closer to Thomas. Thomas grabbed a handful of flour, and chucked it. It sailed in an arc over the board, through the space where Thomas had expected Hamilton to be, and fell to the ground.

_u know_

_if ud told be u were going to do that_

_idve told u it was pointless_

Thomas glared at him. “I need you to be more human for Polly.”

_i can be human_

_actually, theres a chance she can see me_

Thomas hummed in thought. “Yeah, true. There are all those theories about animals and the supernatural…” Shaking the scientist part of his brain away, he walked back inside, hoping Hamilton would follow.

“Okay, stand still,” he said to Hamilton, grabbing Pollywaffle, who’d been lounging on top of the fridge. “You’d’ve been a great graffiti artist if you had any artistic talent,” he told her solemnly before placing her in front of where he knew Hamilton was. 

Instantly, her fur stood up, and she opened her mouth to hiss.

“Polly—no, Polly, look.” Reaching out a hand, Thomas _pet_ the area where Hamilton stood. He hoped he didn’t look like an idiot in her all-seeing cat eyes. There was a rush of air against his neck – Hamilton was snorting. Thomas fought the urge to glare in his direction, knowing that Pollywaffle would pick it up instantly.

The cat’s fur slowly went back to its original volume, and she walked forward, nose out. After a moment, she went back to what she’d been doing, now perfectly fine with the fluctuations in air temperature. Thomas had no idea what just happened but it seemed to have worked out.

_UR CAT LIKES ME SHE NOSE BOOPED ME IM NOW PART OF THE CAT CLAN_

Thomas fought the urge to smile. “I can hear you when you laugh. Can’t you just talk?”

_sometimes_

_takes a lot of energy nowadays_

“Never thought you’d be the one to forsake grammar and punctuation,” Thomas commented in an attempt to ignore how his pulse quickened at Hamilton _not talking_ because it took too much energy. “Anyway, can you keep Polly out of the way while I talk to clients? Just make sure they don’t see her and she doesn’t mess up the house. I don’t need to be fired.”

 _will u pay me_  

“In what, coins to the afterlife?” Thomas snorted.

_asshat._ _of course u know greek mythology_

“What can I say, I had an expensive education,” Thomas drawled, replacing the towels under the couch. “And you understood the reference too, so what does that say about you?” 

_that im learned_

Thomas snickered. “Yeah, okay. Now, I’ve gotta go - they’ll be here any second.” 

 _gl_  

A warm feeling settled in Thomas’ gut and he allowed his face to morph into a genuine smile. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

It was a disaster. Thomas didn’t know why, but this tour was a disaster. There’d been a total of five incidents in the span of fifty minutes, completely annihilating his record.

The group was average – a few quiet conservatives along with the overly talkative friendlies, mixed with those who were neither. There were a handful of children, but none that were the noisy, boisterous kind, and Thomas was incredibly grateful - children would be the first to spot the cat.

But as soon as the tour began, the problems started. It was small at first: a lady in kitten heels tripped in the hallway, and while the rest of the group blamed it on a stray rug or slightly raised bit of wood flooring, Thomas knew better. But Hamilton was with his cat, and Hamilton kept his word. So Thomas gave this the benefit of his doubt.

Then a dining chair suddenly moved into a client’s way, causing them to careen into another client. But no one was hurt, and no one questioned it. And Thomas continued to ignore it, because Hamilton didn’t let people down. Not like this.

But by the fifth incident, which had resulted with people almost falling down the stairs, Thomas knew. When the last person had left, he stalked to the kitchen, where Pollywaffle was playing seemingly with the air.

“Hamilton!” Thomas barked. He furiously stifled the urge to glance around.

The cat gave him a baleful glance, as if to say _pathetic humans_.

_can u chill im right here_

“What was that?!” Thomas hissed, arm gesturing out. “You don’t still have to mess around with my clients. And the thing you did with the vase this time was _dangerous_ , did you ever think of that?!”

_i didn’t do anything?? i was w/ polly the whole time. & id never harm a person I thought u knew that_

“Then I’m supposed to believe everything happened _naturally_?"

_idk what it was but it wasnt me. and_

But then he cut off, the pen dropping to the counter. Thomas rushed forward as the whiteboard fell too. “Hamilton?!” he called out, voice panicked. “Hamilton! Flicker the lights or—”

His phone rang, and he jumped, hands pawing at his pocket. Getting it out, he quickly answered, seeing Angelica’s name on the screen.

“Angelica?” His voice was rough, sounding too loud in his eardrums. 

“Thomas? I need you to come to the Washingtons’ place when you’re done with the clients.”

“Is something wrong?” There was a sinking in his gut and his knees were jelly. Grasping at the kitchen counter with a shaky hand, he lowered himself to the ground, bracing himself for the news. There was a noise, and suddenly something furry shoved its way under Thomas’ arm. 

“It’s Alex.” Angelica sounded like her composure was a thin mask. “He flatlined a few minutes ago.”

There was a pause before Thomas could reply. “I’ll be there—” 

Angelica interrupted him. “They got it beating again, but everyone’s…” She trailed off, and Thomas could practically see her chewing her lip.

“I’m on my way.”Thomas didn’t know how his mouth was still functioning. He got up, careful to take the cat with him, cradling her to his chest. 

“Okay,” she whispered before hanging up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to ImaginaryWolf for first putting the idea of cat meets ham in my head, and to Lesty for helping me build on that =D
> 
> Also go check out our [revenge fic series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/797124) =D and if you're looking for something new to read, check out [this](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Hamilton_Gift_Exchange_Fall_2k17/works?page=1)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (these chapter summaries are difficultttt,,) um,,,, the gang finds out stuff and there's this massive inner thought sesh with thomas guess jane austen did rub off on me
> 
> also a cameo by gwash that took everyone (me it surprised me) by surprise

The cat in the back may have been Thomas’ only reason for driving at a relatively safe speed. His mind was all over the place; trying not to panic at Hamilton’s disappearance from the House, and trying not to think about the implications of his body flatlining in the Washingtons’ house. Naturally, driving took a backseat when it came to thoughts of dying friends—

Wait. He and Hamilton weren’t _friends_ , were they? They couldn’t be. And yet, had Thomas been asked about the nature of his relationship with the ghost – prior to knowing his identity – he may’ve been inclined to say that it was _friendly_. 

By the time he parked in the driveway behind Angelica’s car, anxiety was eating away at his chest like Pollywaffle with Gilbert’s rainbow feather boa. He unclicked his belt, ready to rush into the house, but something stopped him.

It was like entering would be accepting, and Thomas didn’t know if he was ready to do that yet. But then the cat nudged at him from where he’d strapped her down securely, mewling impatiently, making up Thomas’ mind for him.

He held her to his chest, where she settled in comfortably – she never seemed to mind being held, which Thomas found rather strange, but he wasn’t an animal psychologist – and walked to the front door. He debated knocking, but decided to text Angelica instead.

Moments later, the door opened. Angelica stood there, face drawn and grave, but she tried to force a smile when she saw Thomas. Thomas didn’t wait to ask questions; he rushed forward, free arm wrapping around her smaller frame with his body turned slightly to the side so the cat wasn’t squashed.

Angelica reciprocated instantly, one arm going around Thomas’ shoulders and the other hugging Pollywaffle, which she seemed to appreciate, judging by the purring that sent vibrations down Thomas’ arm. 

God, she was _incredibly_ heavy, but there was something soothing about holding her.

Angelica led him into the kitchen, where Peggy sat, staring into a mug. She smiled up at Thomas, but it was a dim, shaky version of the real deal.

“What happened?” Thomas’ voice was hushed. He took the seat beside her, turned so he was facing her. 

Peggy shrugged, reaching out to pet Pollywaffle. She was becoming like a therapy cat. “No idea. One minute his eyes were moving under the lids, and the next he was just…still.” She took in a choked breath.

Angelica brought around a mug for Thomas, and taking a sip – wincing at the burning of his tongue – he deciphered it as her ‘special’ hot chocolate. He smiled his thanks at her, and she nodded in response.

Aaron Burr walked into the room, footsteps deliberate and weary. He ran a hand over his face, looking like he’d aged far too fast in too short a time. He stopped behind Peggy’s chair, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and resting his chin on her head. Peggy reached out and clasped one of his hands, leaning back in the chair.

Angelica quirked an eyebrow at him, silently asking a question. Aaron shook his head, letting out a sigh. “He’s the same as he was before. Like, before he started moving his eyes and everything.”

Thomas bit his lip, not wanting to ask but needing to. “What does Laurens—John—say about this?”

Aaron shrugged, staring down at his and Peggy’s linked hand. “He has no idea. He spouted the usual bullshit about everything being fine, but,” Aaron’s voice held the slightest hints of anger, and Thomas knew it wasn’t about John, “we all know it’s not normal. _Nothing_ about this is normal.” 

Thomas drew in a breath, ready to tell them about the ghost, when George Washington entered. His face seemed older and wearier than it had the last time Thomas had seen him, and there was something tired about his gait.

“George.” Thomas stood, cat in hand – he wasn’t about to let go of her, not when everything around him was so catastrophic. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he had to say something. “I…”

His brain seemed to think otherwise.

“Thomas,” George greeted him, clapping his shoulder warmly. “Your cat?”

Thomas nodded. His mouth seemed unwilling to function, and he was glad that carrying Pollywaffle around seemed to be saving him from anything awkward. 

“She’s very welcome,” George told him, his gravelly voice almost making the air vibrate. Pollywaffle peered at him suspiciously – she was more distrustful of female figures than she was of males, although some she positively _adored_ from the get-go - and sniffed at his outstretched hand. Deeming George satisfactory, she licked him once and then turned away.

“She thinks you’re okay,” Thomas told him, voice finally returning.

George smiled, a small but genuine thing. Then he straightened, as if remembering where he was. “I came to get tea for Martha,” he muttered, walking over to the kitchen. “She’s been…well, you know.”

The group at the table didn’t say anything, and it didn’t seem as though George expected them to. He continued with his task, taking up a tray with him.

“Did you want to visit Alex?” Angelica asked Thomas, finally breaking the silence.

He startled, his sudden movement resulting in an indignant huff from his arms. “Um… is he up for visitors?”

Peggy snorted. “If he were up, he wouldn’t be needing visitors,” she muttered darkly, before sliding lower in her seat, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh god, I don’t know why I said that.” 

Aaron rubbed her arm. “It’s the stress of this whole thing,” he reasoned. “You’ve been here all day. We should go home.”

Peggy turned to him, opening her mouth with a fire in her eyes that Thomas knew meant that her mouth was running off without her mind’s consent or approval. But then, looking at Aaron, she stopped. “Maybe in a bit? I’ll go with Angelica. Can we stay with her tonight?”

“Of course.”

Thomas turned away from this conversation, too private for his ears. “Yeah, I’ll visit him,” he told Angelica. “Can I take the cat with me?”

“Uh…we’ll ask John.” Maybe there was something in his expression, but she didn’t even suggest just leaving Pollywaffle outside with Peggy and Aaron.

 

* * *

 

Quiet murmurs could be heard from the room when Angelica opened the door, stopping instantly when it squeaked. John and Gilbert were standing by the bed, heads close together as they talked. Thomas had no idea what it was about, but he could see it was an intimate conversation.

He felt, for the first time in his life, like a crazy cat lady, carrying around Pollywaffle everywhere while everyone else was off happily with their significant other. But it wasn’t a bad life, Thomas reasoned. He wouldn’t mind living with just cats. And it wasn’t his fault that his crush was comatose.

Thomas waited outside with Pollywaffle, watching as Angelica went in and asked John. Gilbert walked out to join him. 

“Polly!” he exclaimed in a whisper, his normally boisterous attitude dampened. “What’re you doing here?” 

“She followed me to work today,” Thomas said, figuring it was time to include himself in what would otherwise be a rather one-sided conversation. “I got the ghost to babysit her.”

He should probably get around to telling Gilbert who the ghost was. 

“You allowed a _dead spirit_ to _babysit_ our _cat_? Thomas, _how could you_?”

“He isn’t dead, Gilbert, and actually, there’s something you need to know about him.” Could he do it now? Right when he could still see Hamilton’s unmoving body from where he stood? 

After a few moments, Gilbert prompted him, “What?”

Thomas chickened out. “Here, hold Polly. I’ll tell you after.” And entered the room. 

The atmosphere felt…empty. Like there’d been something there that wasn’t present anymore. Thomas shivered slightly, walking over to where Angelica and John were talking.

“Hey,” he said, feeling awkward and trying to avoid staring at Hamilton’s face.

“Hey, Thomas,” John said, giving him a smile. “Was—”

“We should leave, give you two some time,” Angelica cut in, eyeing Thomas with a look that Thomas interpreted as _USE YOUR GHOSTLY INFLUENCE_. He hoped he wasn’t wrong.

And then Thomas was alone, with Alexander Hamilton’s comatose body in front of him. He ran his hands through his hair, sighing as he sat down in the chair by the bed. He was struck by a strong sense of déjà vu, except now, he’d _spoken_ to Hamilton, he’d had conversations and moments and he had no idea where they stood because in all this time, neither one of them had brought up their final, disastrous argument. They’d just carried on as normal. 

He traced a finger over Hamilton’s finger, trying not to pull away (or cradle it) because of how cold it was and wondering if touch would do anything to help. “Hamilton?”

There was nothing. No movement, no changes in the air.

Thomas swallowed, before continuing on. “Hamilton, it’s me. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to try and fi—” Thomas’ eyes widened. “Okay, you still need to keep fighting it, but I’ll be back.” 

With that, he practically raced out of the room, mind buzzing.

 

* * *

 

“Repeat that again?”

Thomas wanted to bang his head against the table. He didn't have time for this; he needed all these minds to focus on his new suspicions. “Hamilton’s my ghost – the ghost in the house I’m trying to sell. God, Aaron, I _must’ve_ complained to you about it at some point.”

“And everyone else here knows, or is accepting,” a nod to John, “of this whole thing?”

Peggy shrugged helplessly. “This is the first I’m hearing about it being Alex, but there wasn’t really much to accept. It was just funny – Thomas, your complaining is always funny, don’t look at me like that – and not really anything I paid attention to.”

“Wow,” Thomas said, drawing out his words. “ _Wow_ , Peggy.”

Peggy stuck her tongue out at him. “You know what I mean.”

Angelica leaned back in the chair. “So he just disappeared? In the middle of a sentence?”

Thomas nodded. 

“That’s weird.”

“How long have you known that the ghost is Alex?” Gilbert finally spoke, voice clipped.

Thomas cringed inwardly, regretting his decision to avoid telling him for the first time. He wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable shitstorm that was about to come. “Um. A few days?”

“And you never thought to tell us when you found out? What about the Washingtons? Don’t they deserve to know that their son is a ghost?” Gilbert’s eyes were glinting with anger, hand gripping his mug tightly.

“There…we came to the conclusion that telling you guys wouldn’t help. And I was gonna tell-”

“‘We’?” Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. 

“Angelica and James.”

And now Gilbert’s eyes flew to Angelica, who sat next to Thomas, staring levelly at Gilbert. Thomas had to give her credit for her ability to gaze unflinchingly in the face of his anger.

“What would you have done if you’d known?” she asked, voice rising slightly in challenge.

“I would’ve—” Gilbert cut himself off as his voice cracked slightly, breaking eye contact with Angelica and taking a breath. Suddenly, he stood, chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it backwards. Stepping away from the table, he walked out of the room.

The rest of them stared at each other, silently asking whether someone ought to go after him. Finally, after a few moments of _you do it!_ and _no you’re closer_ , John stood up quietly and exited the room.

“Well,” Aaron said after a moment’s silence. “That solves the issue nicely.”

Maybe it was due to the stress of the situation, the stress of Hamilton being brought back from the dead, the stress of his ghost self’s presence, but the group began snickering.

“Maybe they’ll solve their own ‘issue’ now, too,” Peggy murmured, waggling her eyebrows.

Thomas snorted. “The chances of that happening are abysmally low, but I like how you stay optimistic in the face of their idiocy.”

There was a _miaow_ from under the table, and glancing his watch, Thomas realised how late it was. “I should go,” he said, standing. “I got a client in the morning.”

“Take someone with you,” Angelica said firmly. “I want a second witness to all this ghost shit.” It was her way of saying  _be careful_ and Thomas appreciated it.

“Yeah, I’ll ask James. And if he can’t come, Aaron.” He winked at Aaron, grinning as the man’s face soured.

“I’d rather go skydiving than go near that house,” he replied, making a face.

“What’re you talking about; skydiving sounds awesome—” Peggy began.

“Oooh, fight, fight...” Angelica chanted under her breath.

“Angie, no.”

Chuckling under his breath, Thomas lured his cat out from under the table and walked out of the room, bidding farewell. He would probably have to look at Hamilton’s temporary room or something to find the two of them… 

Just as he rounded a corner, Thomas stopped short, immediately ducking back around and hoping his quick movements hadn’t been spotted. He shifted the cat so one arm was free, and got his phone. Unlocking it, he shot a text to Angelica.

>  
> 
> **Thomas:** I THINK ITS HAPPENING
> 
>  
> 
> **Queen Bee:** what

> **Thomas:** JOHN
> 
> **Thomas:** AND
> 
> **Thomas:** GILBERT
> 
> **Thomas:** ARE

> **Queen Bee:** STAY THERE AND DON’T MAKE A SOUND
> 
> **Queen Bee:** WE’RE COMING

 

Pocketing his phone, Thomas peeked back around the corner. And sure enough, Gilbert and John stood there, neither of them looking away from the other – the only reason Thomas was getting away with this – as they talked quietly.

Hearing the sound of soft pads behind him, Thomas moved his head back to safety. Angelica soon pushed him away from the optimal viewing position, gazing at the situation with her own eyes.

But she didn’t stay long: Peggy soon shoved her way to the front, dragging Aaron with her and using him as an armrest as she leaned over. This went on for a few moments, and just as Thomas was about to disregard the whole situation altogether, Peggy leapt back and waved her arms around frantically. She was mouthing something, but Thomas was terrible at lip reading.

And apparently everyone else was, too. After a few words, Angelica thrust a phone into Peggy’s hand, and she began typing with a frenzy.

When she showed them the phone, Thomas read: ITS HAPPENING THEY MOVED THEIR FACES CLOSER HE PUT HIS HAND ON HIS FUCKING FACE. And then there was a mad – but silent – rush to get a decent look.

Maybe it was the fact that there was a major crisis going on with Hamilton, or maybe this was just how things worked when two of your friends started to develop feelings for one another, but the intense eagerness of these people to see John and Gilbert become whatever they wanted to become sometimes blew Thomas’ mind.

He’d never been part of a group, not like this. It’d been him and James since childhood, and then Aaron had joined in occasionally. But Aaron had his own group of friends, and he and Thomas weren’t what either of them would describe as _close_. Befriending Angelica was probably the one thing that had made Thomas feel that sense of _camaraderie_ and _team_ : with her came Peggy, and with Peggy came all the boisterous energy that Thomas’ life had been missing since he’d moved out and no longer had to live with all his siblings.

And now there seemed to be another addition to this group: John Laurens. Who they’d embraced with open arms, and were now actively egging on his relationship with one of their friends. Thomas wondered how he did it, and then quickly shoved that thought from his mind. John was one of the friendliest, most outgoing people he’d ever met. If Thomas had ever accepted Angelica’s, or Peggy’s, or even James’, invitations to go somewhere with the squad (because apparently James was in it too), he may’ve been in it.

But now, Thomas felt that sense of _together_ and _us_ and he felt his lips tug into a smile at the excitement of the gang. He felt his dormant – but forever present – sense of playfulness arise at the sight of the rest of theirs. 

John’s face was hidden behind Gilbert’s and they were locked what seemed to be a rather heated kiss. John’s hand was on Gilbert’s waist, the other on the wall Gilbert was leaning against. One of Gilbert’s hands were cupping John’s cheek, making its way down softly until it rested against his chest. 

And then Thomas and Angelica both wolf-whistled simultaneously. 

Glancing at each other in shock, with mutual expressions of _did we just—?_ , they missed the pair leaping away from the wall (but not each other), and staring at the group.

“Why—” Gilbert began. 

“I’M GONNA BE RICH!” Peggy crowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow how many chapters has it been since i introduced these two and their UST,,,
> 
> damn here i go living out my dreams of adopting a cat vicariously through Thomas (im such a biased writer jfc this cat gets so much screen time)
> 
> I feel like there are a bunch of things I should mention here but I've conveniently got no idea what the remembrall side of my brain's trying to tell me rip
> 
> Thanks for reading =D


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're back at the House. Only it's different now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start by saying how incredibly sorry I am for not updating sooner. School had me bamboozled and I had basically no free time or creative juices (but somehow started another fic *side eyes myself*) but here's the next chapter and I hope you're all still around rip

“Jemmy, I _need_ you!” Thomas moaned dramatically into the phone, making his voice whine as pathetically as possible.

“Thomas, I’m _busy_ ,” came James’ exasperated response.

“I haven’t seen you in _forever_ , and you never help me with house tours anymore.” Thomas’ mother would probably have disowned him instantly if he’d ever whinged to her like this. (Granted, she would probably still like to disown him, but the phrase wouldn’t exactly be the same if he used anyone else).

“I saw you this morning!” 

“It isn’t the same thing!”

“What do you mean, ‘it isn’t the same thing’?!”

“Madsie, _c’mon_! You aren’t even doing anything right now.”

“There’s this thing, Thomas,” James’ glare could be heard through his voice, “called ‘paperwork’.”

“Come over tonight and we’ll do it together? It’ll be faster that way.” 

When James sighed, Thomas’ face lit up in a massive smile. He had him. 

“Fine. But for your second one. I’m in the middle of something right now.” 

Just as Thomas opened his mouth to ask what he was in the middle, James hung up. Thomas frowned, stomach churning slightly. He stood where he was, contemplating calling Angelica and asking her to snoop around James’ office, but shook away the thought. He wouldn’t intervene unless he knew something was actually wrong.

Glancing at his watch, he visibly winced at the time. He had about ten minutes before people would start coming, and he had to go through the house and prepare everything. He hated last minute house checks. Especially since he’d rushed out without cleaning up after the last tour. 

Unlocking the door, he poked his head inside. Half of him expected utter destruction and chaos, but when he looked at the cool interior, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He was probably projecting his own feelings about Hamilton onto the place now.

Walking inside, he shivered slightly. It wasn’t what he would consider cold, but it wasn’t warm, either. From watching horror movies, Thomas knew that cold temperature signified restless spirits. But he didn’t know how much of that applied to real life, or how much of that would apply to whatever Alex was.

He walked methodically through each room, clearing the tiny bits of dust that had gathered and fixing up furniture. Unloading the bag of apples into the fruit basket in the living room, he moved upstairs.

This part of the house felt different to Thomas. He couldn’t quite describe it, even to himself, but there was something _off_ about it. Tapping his pocket to ensure he still had his phone on him, he continued into each of the bedrooms.

Everything was eerily perfect, placed precisely as Thomas liked it. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He tried his to look like he was walking back downstairs casually, but he knew his breathing was off and he probably looked like he was practising for the walking competition in the Olympics. 

Honestly, it was probably just him.

Thomas didn’t call out to Hamilton, feeling like breaking the tense silence in the house would be bad.

Checking the time again, he surmised he had about two minutes before the first people would show. He should probably wait outside for them.

Thomas left the door open when he walked out, half afraid the house would become a mess the minute his back was turned.

 

* * *

 

So maybe Thomas should’ve expected this. But it wasn’t exactly as if he could cancel a session without having to inform his superiors of why, and that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. Ever.

So here he was, trying to explain to a group of elderly women why there was ‘penis breath’ written in the frost on the bathroom window. On what was possibly the warmest day they’d had all week.

“I’m sure it was just a prank, ma’am. It wasn’t there when I checked the house this morning.” Thomas put on his most charming, confused face as he peered at the group. Old women seemed to be a sucker for it more than most. Gesturing to the doorway, he added, “Why don’t we go see the bedrooms?” 

The last of them walked out, each mutter to someone beside them – or just to themselves – as they exited, and Thomas let out a breath. He didn’t know if it had been Hamilton (was he even strong enough to pull shit like this?) but he didn’t have time to ask.

“Alrighty, folks,” he clapped his hands together, “we have the master bedroom here…”

There was a _thump_ , and a horrible _crack_ , and the entire group turned around to the massive window of the house to see the imprint of a bird, with splashes of red. 

“Oh my god!” 

“Was that a—?”

“Daddy, what happened to the birdy?”

Thomas wanted to be sick. “Let’s avoid the bedroom for now,” he said firmly, herding everyone out. “Y’all can check out the measurements on our information booklet, which also has a list of our sessions if you want to come back, and you can book a private session too.”

He would probably have to call someone to clean up the window, and the dead bird that was probably lying in the backyard.

 

* * *

 

A woman actually fell down the stairs this time, and the only reason Thomas didn’t have to call an ambulance was because she grabbed onto the railing and only tumbled down a few steps.

He rushed towards her, as did a man she had come with. “Are you alright?” he asked. God, would he have to make them sign forms stating they knew they were entering at their own danger now?

“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied shakily, trying to smile at him. 

“What even happened?” the man asked.

She let out a light laugh, which only appeared slightly forced. “Oh, you know how clumsy I am. I probably tripped over my own feet. I’m fine.”

The man frowned. “If you say so.”

Thomas stood up. “I’ll have the stairs checked for any issues,” he promised, even though he knew exactly what the issue was. “I’m very sorry about this.”

The man waved away his apology. “You did nothing, man, don’t worry about it. And she’s right, she’s clumsy as shit.” 

The woman hit him lightly. “Hey!”

All this time, Thomas had been thinking of them as a couple, possibly, but now closer up, their resemblance to each other was obvious. He smiled at them and offered a complimentary apple.

 

* * *

 

Over the next five minutes, there were two broken lamps, each a metre away from a client, an apple that hit someone in the back, a light shorting even though it hadn’t even been turned on, and taps turning on and off randomly.

Thomas was honestly ready to burn this house down. There was _definitely_ something off.

Just then, his phone pinged. Plucking it from his pocket, he saw a message from James:

> _just got here open the door_

Walking to the front door, he opened it, just as an apple flew through the air over his head and hit James in the chest. 

Stepping backwards upon impact, James blinked in surprise. The apple fell to his feet, and he bent to pick it up. Turning it over in his hand, he raised an eyebrow at Thomas, as if silently judging him for having a haunted house. Like this was _Thomas’_ fault.

Thomas shrugged in response.

James sighed, and walking in, muttering something under his breath. Thomas caught a few words. “…myself killed because you got lonely…my gravestone…read ‘best fucking friend…walked into a haunted house…with weird ass…Hamilton honestly…”

Smirking, Thomas followed him into the kitchen. James deposited his satchel onto the counter beside Thomas’ papers, and then paused mid-motion, looking as if he were sniffing the air.

“What?” Thomas asked, not moving.

James waited another moment, making Thomas shift slightly anxiously, before he finally answered. “It smells different.”

“What does?”

“The house. It smells different.”

Thomas sniffed thoughtfully, but couldn’t find anything wrong. “I can’t smell anything different.”

James hummed. “Maybe it’s because you’re here all the time so you’re used to it.”

Thomas frowned. He didn’t like the idea of something happening in the house – something that he’d been trying to do: changing the smell – without his noticing. Changing the subject, he said, “The people should be here anytime now. You should go out there and introduce yourself first, seeing as you haven’t gone outside in _days_.” 

James brought out the drama queen in him.

Sending him a bitchface that would make Sam Winchester proud, James said, “I literally had a house tour yesterday.”

Thomas shrugged. “Same thing.”

"Wouldn’t want to be alone here anyway,” James muttered as he walked to the door. 

Thomas took this time to carefully sniff at the air again. He didn’t want James to see how much it threw him off that the scent he’d come to be so familiar with had changed without him being able to tell.

Now that he was paying attention, he could sense it. Either that, or it was his mind trying to compensate. There were traces of that male deodorant only douchebags with no sense of smell used, and a hint of mint. Repulsion coursed through him at the thought of something else tainting the house, and there was a pit in his stomach when he realised this may have something to do with Hamilton’s flatlining.

But before he could fully develop his hypothesis, James strode in with the group. “This is Thomas,” he announced, a hand gesturing to where Thomas stood.

“Hi,” Thomas greeted, quickly plastering a smile to his face.

And they went through the house once more. At this point, Thomas could definitely do this tour in his sleep. He may like his job, but there was nothing fun about leading tours of the same house for months. 

But there was a part of him that rebelled against the idea of the house being sold off.

 

* * *

 

There were fewer, but more extreme, incidents this time.

The windows opened up suddenly, all at once, letting in a gust of cool air inside and blowing all the spare application forms around the room. Thomas cursed under his breath, quickly running around to grab them before they could go anywhere else while James closed the windows. One particular window refused to move, and Thomas could hear the mutterings of a few clients.

He didn’t blame them; if he went to a new house and it had a sticky window, he’d be muttering too.

James finally got it shut as Thomas finished with the papers, placing the can of coconut water James had brought him on them as a paperweight.

“Sorry about that,” he said brightly to the clients, his face practically shining with the positive vibes he hoped he was sending them. “Didn’t even remember we had the windows opened.” 

There were more lighthearted jokes from the two of them, and some chuckles from the group, and Thomas started to relax. 

But not for long, because as he followed the group, having finished discussing floor maintenance with an overeager man in a shirt buttoned all the way up that made _Thomas_ feel suffocated, he felt a _whoosh_  of air by the side of his head, and turned to see a knife embedded in the doorframe he’d been about to walk through. 

A rush went through him, leaving Thomas dizzy with the knowledge that there had just been a _knife_ _aimed at his head_. Breath rushed out of his mouth in short bursts, but his mind quickly rebooted. He needed to get the knife out before someone saw it.

James was going to have a heart attack when he told him.

Tugging out the blade from the hardwood was easier than Thomas had thought it’d be, all his knowledge with wood and sharp objects coming from the short semester he’d tried out woodwork in high school. He liked to think it was because of how much stronger he was now that he was regularly working out and weightlifting, but his mind toyed with the idea that Hamilton was helping him with it. With the idea that he was around at all.

Just as he yanked out the knife, he caught a glimpse of something dark on the floor, and leaning down to examine it, he cursed. It was a lock of his hair, probably having been cut off when the blade came by.

He needed to check the damage. Now.

Dashing over to the hall, where there was a horizontal mirror, he checked his hair in as many angles as possible, trying to judge the damage. He could see the bit where it’d been cut off, but because of its overall volume, he was fairly certain no one else would be able to tell.

Breathing deeply, he jogged up the stairs to catch up with James and the group. They were at the master bedroom, indicating that James had basically reached the end of the tour, and Thomas knew he’d hear shit about leaving James alone in what was basically a strange house with a bunch of people.

“…that’s it, guys! Now we just make our way downstairs, and y’all can give us your forms…” James trailed off slightly when he caught a glimpse of Thomas walking up to them, but continued smoothly, “…and feel free to come to another session or book a private one. Our details are in the booklet.”

As the group slowly trailed to the bottom, there was a loud shriek.

Thomas broke into a run, dodging through the crowd to make his way to the middle of the staircase. There was a cluster around something that Thomas couldn’t see over the heads of everyone until he made his way to the centre.

Nose wrinkling immediately, Thomas swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. There was a dead rat lying right in the middle of the step, and its body appeared to have practically been turned inside out. There were bits of red strewn all over the step, and the only parts that remained mostly intact were the tail and the head, allowing the mess to be identifiable as a rodent.

Shoving the need to throw up, Thomas turned around. “Okay, we seem to have a problem here,” he said evenly. He was so relieved his parents had made him go to a special voice training class – it hadn’t helped with his fear of public speaking but it had taught him how to keep a level voice under duress. “James, pass me a towel. In the closet to your left.”

James threw him a towel – pure white, clean, fluffy, _brand new_ … Thomas hated everything about this situation – and he placed it on the step, hiding the rat.

“Okay, everyone just skip this step and go to the next one…”

  

* * *

 

“Well, that was a disaster,” James commented, running a hand down his face wearily as he collapsed into the couch. The tour group had left moments ago, and he’d just ended a call to the cleaning crew they used. No one had submitted any offer forms or expressed interest in anything except getting out of the house, to neither of their surprise.

“Understatement,” Thomas replied darkly, sinking down beside him. He grabbed an apple from the bowl sitting on the coffee table, and took a sip of the coconut water in his hand. “Ugh, my daily coconut water intake is so low. My skin’s suffering.”

James gave him a Look. “No, it’s not. You’ve consumed enough coconut water to last you another fifty lifetimes.” 

“Jemmy, you can never have enough coconut water.”

James sat up suddenly, eyeing him. “Why’s your hair weird?”

“What do you mean?” Thomas tried not to break eye contact, but couldn’t keep looking James in the eye and keep a straight face.

“Thomas…”

Sighing, he gave in. He’d planned on telling James anyway; he was just delaying the inevitable. “Knife.”

“What.”

“A ghost threw a knife at my head and it got cut off. There’s this hole in the doorframe there,” he indicated with his head, “so we should probably do something about that too.”

“Wait. _Hamilton_ threw a knife at you? What’d you do? Is he finally going rogue?” James’ eyes turned frantic, darting around the room.

“No!” Thomas hastened to interrupt his friend’s theorising. “I need to go back to the office. I’ll tell you then.” He didn’t want to discuss his suspicions in the house, with unwanted ears.

  

* * *

 

“What do you mean, you think there’s another ghost?” Angelica demanded, eyes boring into him.

Thomas held his ground. “James told me the house smells different, and it does—”

“You’re basing your theory off the fact that the house _smells_ different?!”

“And Hamilton never did anything violent like this. But there were two dead creatures today, and…” he hesitated slightly, before ploughing on, “it threw a knife at me.”

Angelica’s eyes widened, mouth opening.

Thomas didn’t allow her to say anything, knowing she’d deem the place too unsafe for him to go to. “It didn’t hit me – well, it did, but it only cut off a bit of my hair – but I’m fine. Which is why I think there’s another ghost.”

Angelica gazed at him thoughtfully. “We can confirm it,” she said finally, after one of the most intense staring matches of Thomas’ life, “by doing a thingy.” 

“A what?” came James’ dry voice from where he stood in the corner like a vigilante.

Angelica waved a hand expressively. “It’s this thing. I can’t remember the name, but basically, you have a body and you want to summon its spirit so you have this ritual over it and it’s kinda like a séance.”

Thomas nodded. “Let’s do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol now I'm gonna have to actually research to see if there's a ritual like this or if I have to take a seance and add create license
> 
> (i can't believe my lowkey supernatural references have now resulted in actual name dropping)
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm done with exams after this wk so the next chapter should be up in a week-ish if everything goes to plan =D


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grocery shopping and summoning spirits.

While Thomas may have had his trepidations about _summoning Hamilton’s ghost to his body to talk to him_ , he didn’t acknowledge them for some time because of how busy he’d suddenly become. As it turned out, ignoring all his paperwork for over three days wasn’t the best course of action. Thomas didn’t even have the energy to be angry at himself; he was too keyed up from the excessive amounts of sugary caffeinated beverages to focus on negatives.

When the clock struck six in the afternoon, Thomas’ phone suddenly buzzed, jolting him from his work-based mind-set.

Blinking, Thomas sat up, groaning slightly as his back scolded him for his fixed seating position for the past few hours. He grabbed at his phone, cursing when it slipped out of his hand and fell on his lap. Picking it up, he saw he had thirty-seven messages from Gilbert. 

Raising an eyebrow, Thomas called him; he didn’t have the patience to scroll through the spam.

_“Thomas!”_ came a loud yell from the other end of the call.

Wincing, Thomas held the device slightly away from his head. “Yeah. You spammed?” He said it like one would say ‘you rang?’.

Thomas could practically hear his brother’s scowl. “And I see you didn’t read them.”

He made a nonchalant noise. “I’m calling you instead.”

Gilbert muttered something under his breath, French words too convoluted for Thomas to make any out. “We don’t have any food in the house.”

“Oh. That’s probably bad.”

“Yes. No food is definitely bad.”

After a pause, Thomas asked, “Did you want me to go grocery shopping on the way home?”

“Yes, Thomas, that’s exactly what I want.” Gilbert’s tone could probably fuel a kiln. Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning, Thomas thought resignedly. Maybe it was the lack of food.

Either way, it was how Thomas found himself walking through the brightly lit aisles of the supermarket, contemplating the types of bread available to him. He didn’t know if he ought to buy sourdough or a baguette.

Gilbert had specifically asked for a baguette.

But he’d been asking for baguettes for eons and Thomas had never bought one, and he was still standing. Therefore, he could probably get away with purchasing sourdough.

But Gilbert had also seemed moodier than usual, and Thomas didn’t really want to take that risk…

In the end, he grabbed neither. Instead, he wandered to the white bread section and grabbed what appeared to have the most preservatives stuffed into it. He had a sudden craving for fairy bread. He’d need to buy butter and hundreds ‘n’ thousands too, then…

Fifteen minutes of standing in front of the cake decoration section led to spending fifteen minutes in front of the apple section.

Royal Gala apples were so much better than Pink Lady.

But did Thomas _really_ need apples? Did he and Gilbert even _eat_ apples? Or maybe he’d bake… he hadn’t made pie in a while. So then he went and bought everything necessary for two pies, because he wanted to try out a recipe for a shepherd’s pie that he’d seen on Pinterest.

Thomas got home an hour later than he’d intended, calling Gilbert down to help him carry the shopping up to their floor. The trip upstairs was honesty the only reason he tried to restrain any urge to splurge, he reflected as he waited in the elevator, arms laden with bags. 

Using elbows and hips to open doors, the two made their way inside and dumped everything on the kitchen counter, slowly unpacking each bag. 

“What,” Thomas heard from behind him, “is this?”

Turning around and narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the fridge, he squinted at the box in Gilbert’s hand. “Um,” he said. “Food?”

“I’m glad you can identify edibles, but I see you’ve not mastered the art of identifying what is and isn’t on a shopping list.” 

Thomas shrugged. “We needed Froot Loops.” 

“Thomas, you hate Froot Loops. _I_ hate Froot Loops. No one sane likes Froot Loops!”

“Taste buds evolve!” Thomas shot back, slightly stung on behalf of the affronted cereal. “Maybe it’ll taste good this time!”

“Oh my god,” Gilbert muttered. “You got it for the toy again, didn’t you? _I thought we’d moved past this!_ It isn’t even a good toy!”

“They’re bringing back cereal toys and I had to support them!”

Gilbert gave him a stare, but moved on. “Okay, fine, but then how do you explain this, this… _atrocity_?”

When Thomas turned around again, Gilbert was brandishing a container. His arm movements suddenly reminded Thomas of a windmill. “I can’t see it if you keep waving it around.” 

“ _Yoghurt!”_

“What’s wrong with yoghurt?” Thomas asked slowly, rising to his feet. He was starting to genuinely worry about Gilbert.

“It’s peach flavoured!" 

“Yes?”

“Peaches!” Gilbert spluttered, thumping it down on the counter with a soft _thud_ and marching out of the room. 

“What the fuck?” Thomas mouthed as he watched him leave, confusion and exasperation battling for control in his mind. He debated going after Gilbert, but it’d been a long day and frankly, he was sick of human interaction. Maybe he’d just turn in for the night… 

His phone rang. 

Thomas let out an irritated grumble, and answered it without looking at the caller ID. “Yeah?”

_“Thomas?”_

“Angelica?”

_“I think I found something with the Alex situation.”_

Thomas stood up straighter. “Yeah?”

_“I talked to a friend’s mum’s sister, and she basically gave me this séance thing that’ll let us summon the spirit to the body.”_  

Thomas didn’t reply. He leaned against the wall, processing the information. They had a ritual that could drag Hamilton’s spirit to his comatose body. Did that mean— “So will he pop right back in or…?”

“It isn’t clear, since the ritual’s usually for people who scry too far out or something and have to be brought back.”

Thomas let out a breath. “Okay…”

“You’re free tomorrow. I checked. Come to the Washingtons’ at like ten ish and bring Laf. We’ll need a whole bunch of people for the energy.” 

Thomas nodded, before realising she couldn’t see him, and hastily said, “We’ll be there,” before hanging up the call.

Well. There’d be no use trying to sleep now. Better to turn on the TV and see what was on to take his racing mind off the fact that they might end up waking Hamilton in less than twenty-four hours. 

Thomas settled down under a throw rug on the couch with a bowl of yoghurt, channel surfing until he found a decent documentary, on the Spanish invasion of the Aztec empire. He’d gotten about ten minutes into it, and was keenly listening to the narrator’s deep tones describing the innovative Aztec society when a weight plonked down next to him.

Glancing to his side, he saw Gilbert with Pollywaffle in his lap. Thomas didn’t move, waiting for him to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he finally heard Gilbert mutter quietly. Thomas stayed quiet, letting him continue. “Everything has been so tense lately that I get angry at people around me instead of…” He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I even yelled at John today, for no reason. We were having lunch at some fast food place, and I can’t even remember what started it now, but he wants to not start this,” he waved his hand around and gestured to himself, “seriously until the situation’s fixed. Or _better_. More stable. And I know that’s a stupid excuse for me yelling at you about _cereal_ , but…” He shrugged helplessly.

Thomas shifted to the side a little, offering a small smile and one half of the rug. “Wanna watch with me?” 

Gilbert's returning smile was pure relief.

 

* * *

 

“Do we need anything?” Gilbert yelled from the driveway. 

“No, just get your ass in here!” Peggy shouted back from the upstairs balcony.

They had all met up at the Washingtons’ for the ritual, three cars arriving at the same time and vying for optimal parking locations.

Angelica had won, mainly because she was fearsome behind the wheel and no one wanted to go up against her mad driving. Eliza and Peggy had walked out of the car cheerfully enough, but Aaron and Maria stumbled along with shaky legs for some time. 

Now half the group was looking for the candles that James swore the Washingtons’ had, having stayed overnight at the house in a storm, during which the power had cut out and they had to resort to ‘medieval methods of keeping predators at bay’, as he put it.

Hercules had only just arrived, having gotten coffee to offer Hamilton. Thomas was frankly disgusted at the sludge he drank, but he was willing to ignore it if it made this whole thing easier.

“We’re ready!” he heard John call from somewhere inside the house. He had a surprisingly loud voice when he needed it to be.

Thomas was incredibly grateful that this was happening on a weekday, and that the Washingtons’ – along with hopefully all the neighbours in the general vicinity – were out. And even if the neighbours were home, he reasoned, they probably figured it was some rebellious teen party.

Hamilton’s sickroom had gone through substantial transformations since the last time Thomas had been there – an hour ago. The bed had been moved slightly away from the wall to make space for candles and people, and there were two fire hydrants on standby in case something went wrong. The bedside table, normally holding a fresh vase of flowers, had three cups of coffee. Thomas breathed in the aroma; it may be a sin against good coffee, but it was still _coffee_. 

“Okay, people,” Angelica clapped her hands together, “there are like…eleven of us here, so we should fit around the bed easily. We basically just sit there holding hands and I chant this thing and we wait for Alex to get his ghostly ass here and talk to us.”

“I brought the whiteboard and marker just in case,” Thomas added. Turning to the group, he said, “He’s been communicating with it for a bit.”

Hercules raised an eyebrow, but no one said anything.

“’Kay, let’s get to it!”

Thomas sat next to Angelica, who was seated on Hamilton’s right side. James placed himself on Thomas’ left, and Peggy and Aaron next to him. After some deliberation, Gilbert sat down on Hamilton’s left, and John beside him, the two giving each other tentative smiles. Maria sat beside John with Eliza next to her, and Thomas suddenly realised that Maria probably had history with Hamilton for her to be here, and he felt an uncomfortable tendril of _something_ enter his stomach.

Hercules entered with a platter of cookies and placed them next to the coffee. “They’re his favourite. Martha bakes them every few months when she’s stressed,” he explained without prompting before sitting down in the space between Gilbert and Angelica.

“Everyone hold hands, and _do not let go._ ” Angelica cast a warning glance around the circle. And then she began chanting.

Thomas didn’t pay attention to her words; he was too busy gazing at the candle in front of him. It had suddenly begun flickering, and he prayed it wouldn’t go out.

And then there was a loud slurping noise from behind him that made him cringe as badly as people normally did when nails were dragged along a chalkboard. He didn’t turn around. 

But the rest of them did.

Eliza gasped, hand almost going to her mouth, but Maria clutching it tightly.

“Alexander?” Angelica asked in a clear voice, the only outward display of her feelings expressed through the tightening of her grip on Thomas’ hand.

There was a noise like loud static and the group all winced. And then it was like someone had poured cold, cold water on Thomas, just without the wetness, and he saw a figure walk into the circle holding a biscuit in his fingers.

His breath caught and he opened his mouth to say something, but Hamilton’s eyes weren’t on him. They were on everyone _but_ him, and suddenly he was struck by the realisation that he, out of everyone, had the least number of reasons to be here. So he kept his mouth shut, and drank in the sight of an _awake_ Hamilton.

“Hey, guys,” Hamilton said awkwardly, running his hand through his hair. It was hanging loose around his shoulders, longer than Thomas had ever seen it; it hadn’t been trimmed since the Incident.

“Alexander?” Gilbert whispered. 

Hamilton turned around, smile turning sad. “Hey, Laf,” he said.

Gilbert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Hamilton hastened to speak. “I’m sorry—”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Gilbert interrupted him incredulously. “It’s me who’s sorry! I should’ve—”

“I’m literally alive because of you!”

“—been there sooner.”

“Stop!” Hamilton scrambled around to crouch in front of him. “You had no reason to come that night and I was horrible to you guys all day and you came anyway and you _saved me_ and you have nothing to feel guilty about!”

Peggy broke in before Gilbert could reply, and both he and Hamilton seemed grateful. This wasn't a conversation that should happen in such a public setting. “Alex? Are you okay?”

Hamilton let out a snort of laughter. “Peggy, I’m a ghost. I’m—”

“No, like… you keep flickering in and out, but there are _eleven_ of us here which should be enough energy to keep you pretty stable.”

“Oh. Right.” Hamilton glanced down at himself. “Y’all’re giving me enough energy to talk and everything, which is _such a relief_. You have no idea how annoying it is to say everything through a tiny whiteboard.” He said the last part with a glance at Thomas, eyebrow raised cheekily.

Thomas scowled at him and Hamilton poked his tongue out at him. But when Thomas didn't say anything Hamilton's playful gaze became hesitant, his tongue on the brink of initiating a _conversation_  with Thomas that he wasn't  _ready_ for.

“Is there another ghost in the house with you?” James rumbled. Thomas was glad someone had finally asked; he wasn’t going to speak anytime soon.

Hamilton looked uncomfortable, glancing away from Thomas. “Yeah,” he said. “But I don’t know how he got in or why he’s still hanging around. He doesn’t talk much. Or like, at all. I try to avoid him.”

“Wait, so there’s definitely another ghost in the house? Is he a poltergeist? What’s he look like?” Thomas couldn’t help the barrage of questions that suddenly burst from him, and he closed him mouth audibly when everyone turned to look at him.

Hamilton eyed him thoughtfully for a moment before shrugging. “Dunno if he’s a poltergeist, since I have pretty limited experience with ghosts,” he said pointedly, “but he’s pretty powerful. He usually sticks to inside the house but he can influence shit outside too.”

He walked over to the whiteboard, grimacing at it slightly. “I’ll try drawing him.”

“Great, we’ll never figure him out if _you’re_ drawing,” Thomas muttered.

“I’ll have you know I aced my high school art class,” Hamilton shot back.

“What’d you draw, stick figures?” 

“Stick figures are an important art style! But no, I recreated _The Birth of Venus_.”

“You mean the creepy Renaissance painting where Venus’ neck is literally bent?”

“Boys, boys, we have a limited time frame here, and I understand you two want to engage in your usual UST banter, but we have work to do,” Angelica cut in, ignoring their indignant stares. “Alex, how do we get rid of him? What does he want?”

Hamilton shrugged. “I mean, you could try all that crap you did when you wanted to get rid of me. And I don’t know what he wants, but he’s aiming to kill, not maim or frighten. I don’t think Tho—Jefferson should be alone in the house when he’s doing his tours.” 

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of—” Thomas began.

“Angie and I’ll take turns going with him,” James interrupted, shooting a look towards Thomas, who scowled at this sudden betrayal.

“Fine by me,” Hamilton said, leaning against the bed. He hadn’t looked at his body once during this whole thing.

“Can you get back in?” John asked.

“Who’re you?” Hamilton questioned, turning to him.

“Um,” John cleared his throat, “I’m your nurse. John Laurens.”

“Nice to meet you, Nurse John Laurens.” Hamilton winked at him, and Thomas felt a violent flip in his gut. 

“Taken already, Alexander,” John informed him, with a soft glance to Gilbert, who looked back in surprise but not without happiness. 

“Damn, y’all’ve been busy,” Hamilton commented, with something akin to resignation in his tone. And that was when Thomas suddenly realised that Hamilton must be feeling at least some sort of detachment from the group closest to him, who had still continued with their lives while he was stuck. And this was something that none of them would ever understand, not completely, and he would never understand what they were going through with his state. “How’re George and Martha?” he asked suddenly, anxiety revealing itself in his eyes.

“They’re doing as well as they can,” Peggy assured him. “We’re here most of the time, so they’re not alone.”

He jerked his head in an affirmative gesture, a wavering smile on his lips. “If you tell them about this whole thing, can you let them know I love them and I’m so grate—”

“You’re making it out of this alive,” Maria burst in. She hadn’t spoken the entire time, but now she gazed at Hamilton fiercely. “Don’t talk like you’ve run out of time.”

The smile Hamilton gave Maria practically confirmed the sort of history the two shared. “Look, ‘Ria—” Before he finished his sentence, he glanced to the side, head snapping around. “I have to go.” 

“Wait—what’s going on?” Aaron’s voice was laced with panic.

“He’s awake, and I don’t want to lead him back here.” Hamilton glanced around the circle one last time. “I’ll try finding out his name or birthdate or _something_ useful…” 

He was already fading out.

“Just focus on staying alive, idiot!” Angelica shouted at him.

And then he was gone, leaving a mostly-complete portrait of a man on the whiteboard behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd be updating more frequently now that school's out, but then I had my first ever case of writer's block aND I HaD No IDeA HoW TO GET aRouND IT till today after a Writing Sesh™ with Lesty and hopefully i managed to kickstart my brain again =//
> 
> (the grocery shopping bit is bc of her, btw, and the pie bit is me projecting my desire to make pie that ill probs never get around to rip)
> 
> also guys the seance in this is so incredibly fake pls don't try it (not that i've given you enough to go on with honestly...) (also i was googling 'summoning coma patient spirit to body' and one of the first three links that popped up was supernatural (from s2 e1) which was hilarious... not that i used the seance board or anything from that)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Studying and unexpected visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm getting better at these summaries?
> 
> Also lol how many of u are genuinely surprised I updated this fast (I am. Even though I'm sitting around all day I'm v surprised).
> 
> Mouseover for the French bits and translations down in the notes. If you click on it, it'll take you to the translation, and clicking on the translations will take you back to the story =D

“And that’s the last of them,” Angelica announced, letting her armful of books drop onto the floor. They landed with a _thump_ , the sound muffled by the thick carpeting. 

Thomas let out a low whistle. “Damn, Angie. Where do you even get these?”

“That’s for me to know and you to only know when I tell you,” Angelica replied with a smirk. She _booped_ his nose on her way to the counter, hoisting herself up for a glass of water. Thomas had no idea why she couldn’t behave like a normal person and just get a drink with her feet on the ground.

“Okay, should we take notes? Do we need to take—we probably do—and pens we should have—and I always liked to work with classic music in the background—”

“Thomas, chill.” Angelica interrupted his rambling. “We haven’t been in school for a while, but that doesn’t mean we’ll forget information the second we turn the page.”

“I’ll get post-it notes,” Thomas said decisively. 

Angelica sighed, but waved an arm in a do-whatever-it-is-you-need-to-do gesture.

Just as Thomas walked back into the living room with a bundle of colourful post-it notes and a variety of writing utensils – all stolen from Gilbert’s room – the door opened, letting in a gust of air, and the sound of what seemed to be a rabble came from the doorway.

“—the puppy—”

“—and then John was like—”

“—his exact words were—”

“‘ _I don’t want to be the crotch piece to your sport suit—’”_

“—and I was like—”

“Guys!” Thomas shouted, arms waving around wildly to get their attention. John, Peggy, and Hercules all turned to stare at him. “This?” he gestured around, “is an apartment. That means there are _neighbours_. Neighbours who’d love to complain on us. So shut up.”

“I don’t get why soundproof walls can’t be a thing,” Peggy grumbled.

Angelica stared at her. “Because then murders can happen without people to stop them, Peggy.”

Thomas was saved from having to add something to that…interesting piece of logic by the arrival of Eliza and Maria.

“Yo,” he greeted them, relief palpable in his voice. “Is this everyone?”

“Yup,” Peggy confirmed, plopping herself down in front of a couch. “Aaron can’t make it and Laf’s coming later.”

Thomas nodded. “And James said he has a mountain of paperwork.” James had added a pointed look with 'no thanks to you dragging me along to house tours I have no business being at. I could've been _killed_...or worse;  _fired_ ' attached to the end of what Thomas had just repeated, but Thomas saw no reason to tell them this.

“Okay, then.” John rubbed his hands together. “Where should we start?”

Angelica shrugged. “I thought we should just take a book each and start reading.”

“Well,” John drew himself up like he was gearing up for a fight, “I didn’t survive all those years of med school for something like a bit of reading to take me down.” And he promptly shuffled through the piles and picked out the smallest one.

The rest of the gang followed behind him, settling down around the room. Thomas drew the curtains, the setting sun casting strange shadows on the floor as they closed. Then he went to get his glasses. There was no way he’d be doing all this in contacts; his eyes bothered him enough towards the end of the day as it was.

 

* * *

 

Rubbing his eyes, Hercules leaned back and stretched, letting out a massive yawn. Thomas winced at the crack his jaw made; he’d been told by multiple adults during his impressionable youth that yawning too wide would result in your jaw getting stuck, and that piece of information had stayed with him.

“What time’s it?” Maria muttered, looking up from her position on her stomach to squint at the clock. “Who the fuck thought it’d be a good idea to buy a clock without numbers?” 

Thomas bristled. “That clock is a fine specimen of art during the Surrealist Movement.”

"It's impractical as shit. The whole point of a clock is to be able to tell the time, which I can't do because it isn't even in a circle." Maria gave him a long look. “We should really bet on who chose what piece of furniture in here. We’d make loads.”

“Everyone can’t make loads,” Eliza said. “That’s not how gambling works.”

“Nah, Thomas and Laf would be the ones doling out the cash. They’re pretty much rolling in it.”

“I object to that,” Thomas interjected. “I roll around in silk sheets.”

“Silk sheets suck, man. Take it from someone who had to endure them for a month.” John joined in now.

Thomas leaned back and let his legs stretch out. “This fresh bod has no complaints.”

Angelica wrinkled her nose. “Never say that again.”

Thomas stuck his tongue out at her in a show of childish retaliation, to which she simply raised an eyebrow. He could see the rest of the group watching, expressions friendlier than they’d ever been before, and the surprise hit him again. They were _here_ with him instead of at one of their places, knowing that Gilbert wouldn’t be back until later— 

The doorbell rang.

Frowning, Thomas got up slowly. He stretched like Pollywaffle – and where even was the cat? – and made sure to stretch his spine properly before making his way to the door. Maybe it was James or Aaron… Gilbert would have his key… unless he’d lost it again…

Unlocking the door without checking the peephole, he opened his mouth to greet the person standing on the other side with a casual ‘yo’ or ‘the fuck are you ringing the bell for?’. But as the information passed from his eyes to his brain, his mouth froze, along with the rest of his body. 

He swallowed. “Mother.”

“Thomas,” his mother greeted him. The two of them stood there for a moment before the well-conditioned part of his brain came into action. 

“Come in.” He held the door open wider, and she stepped inside. His mother didn’t look like how mothers typically did when they came to visit their sons (from what he'd observed, anyway). She was dressed in a dark overcoat, the collar lined with faux fur and the buttons shiny. Her fingers were encased in dark gloves – and who even wore fashionable gloves anymore? – and there was a sort of fancy hair accessory slash hat on her head. She looked like she was heading to some important meeting, not visiting her sons' apartment.

She took off her coat gracefully and handed it to him, which he took to hang on the coat hanger. She was wearing a suit under the coat, looking like she was here for a business transaction. Thomas could see the group in the living room watching them with wide eyes – apart from Angelica, of course, who had a neutral expression but white-knuckled grip on the book she was clenching in her hand. 

“You have guests!” his mother exclaimed. “Thomas, don’t be rude. Introduce us.”

Thomas went through the group in a systematic fashion. “This is my mother—”

“Jane,” she interrupted. “Call me Jane.”

There was another small pause before Eliza stepped forward. “Pleasure to meet you, Jane. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Not from this one, I’m guessing,” Jane let out a high-pitched laugh. “But my Gilbert must talk of me often. He’s certainly mentioned all of you.” 

Thomas had no idea what Gilbert had said to their mother about this particular group of people. He hadn’t even been aware they’d had regular correspondence. But then again, he reasoned, there was no reason to believe his mother wasn’t exaggerating.

Eliza was smiling, in a manner that looked fake to Thomas, who only recognised it because he’d seen the genuine thing. “Take a seat. Sorry about the mess here.”

“They have a group assignment with Gilbert,” Thomas added quickly.

“Excuses, excuses,” Jane said in a sing-song voice to Thomas as she went to sit on the couch. “Thomas, I have no idea how you’ve managed living without a cleaner for so long. You’re absolutely hopeless at it.” 

John visibly sat up straighter. “Gilbert lives here too.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Gilbert shouldn’t be expected to clean up after Thomas as well. He has enough on his plate with his studies.”

Thomas could see this for what it would be: a loud and angry statement that was highly likely to anger or amuse his mother, and he couldn’t take the risk of it being the former. Quickly, he said, “Do you want something to eat?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll wait for Gilbert to get home. Which will be…?” She looked at him expectantly.

“Later tonight.” She wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer, he knew.

“Be specific,” she reprimanded.

Thomas sat down on a lone chair someone had brought in from the table in the corner but had abandoned. The rest of them stayed where they were on the floor, eyeing Jane with what seemed to be wary gazes. He fought the urge to shrug; she despised shrugs. “He didn’t say the exact time.” 

“I think his shift ends in about half an hour,” Hercules said slowly. Thomas wanted to groan, and John and Maria looked at Hercules with an intense glare.

Jane immediately snapped her head around. “His friend here knows more about your brother’s whereabouts than you do. I expected more diligence from you, Thomas.”

“He’s a grown man, Mother. He doesn’t need to tell me where he goes,” Thomas replied back sharply, and then drew in a shallow breath. Time apart from her must’ve made his grip on his emotions slack.

“Talking back is for insolent children who will have no chance of a future,” she said harshly. And then it seemed as though she suddenly remembered where she was, and she visibly smoothed out her face. “Bring me a cup of tea.”

Thomas rose and tried to walk out to the kitchen at a normal pace. At least this was something he knew how to do. He reached into the far back of the cabinet, grabbing out a container of unopened tea. He’d bought it the first time she’d wanted to visit, but hadn’t stuck around long enough – _or been stressed enough,_ he thought ruefully – to need a cup.

Preparing tea was a methodical procedure that he’d learnt to do from when he’d been old enough to boil water. His mother, however, was one of those creatures who had taste buds on their taste buds; she would be able to tell if he did even the slightest thing wrong. There was a reason he never drank tea anymore – thanks to his… above average upbringing, he’d never be satisfied with an inadequately brewed cup of tea. Thomas mixed cold water in, checking with a thermometer to get the exact heat. 

As he watched the water colour, Thomas listened to the others talk with his mother.

“…met your father once or twice! Remarkable man,” he heard his mother say. She was probably speaking to one of the Schuylers.

“Yeah, Father’s great.” He was right: that was Angelica. “He’s out of town for a few weeks, but he tries to be here for us as much as he can.” That was said in a pointed fashion; you would need to be entirely obtuse to not hear the underlying suggestion. He wished Angelica would stop trying to make his mother feel – guilty? what even was Angelica’s purpose? –  for her actions.

“Oh, the little tailor place in…what was it?” Whoops. He’d missed a bit of the conversation.

“Queen Street, ma’am. Twenty-Three Queen Street.” It seemed his mother had moved on to Hercules. “Although I hear they’re thinking of renaming it to ‘Pearl Street’.”

“Names these days, always changing…why, a friend of mine…”

Thomas heard the door open, and didn’t look up. There was only one person who would be walking in without knocking at this hour.

“Gilbert, my darling!” Jane’s cheek kisses were so loud, Thomas could hear them from where he was standing at the counter. “I thought you’d said you’d be home early.”

“Yes, I was supposed to, but then someone called in sick and I was the only one there. Je suis désolé d’avoir gardé vous attendent, Mère. Excusez-moi."

“Oui, allez et vous rafraîchir."

And then there were light footsteps towards Thomas. They stopped right next to him, and he was suddenly very glad that the positioning of the room meant that Jane couldn’t see him from the couch unless she turned around, and the rest of the group were doing a marvellous job of keeping her talking.

“You couldn’t’ve told me she was coming?” Thomas muttered quietly under his breath, the words coming out angrier than he’d wanted.

“I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

“You _forgot_ that she was coming over?!”

“Stop hissing so loud. And yes, I forgot she wanted to come over. I had other things on my mind.”

Right. Thomas sighed. “I did too. She called me too, you know? Although that was over a week ago.” When he saw Gilbert start to relax next to him, Thomas added, “Don’t think I’m forgiving you that easily. You left me alone with her—”

“You weren’t alone! You had a dozen people here with you!” Gilbert protested, still whispering.

“—so you’re making me fairy bread for breakfast for a month.”

Gilbert stared at him. Thomas stared back. “Fine,” he conceded. “But you should give her that tea soon. It’s starting to get too dark.” Thomas wasn't the only one with high expectations for tea.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like her,” Hercules announced the minute Jane had left.

“Herc,” Eliza hissed. “She might still hear you.”

“I don’t care. She sucks. No offence, guys,” he added with a half-hearted look of contrite. Gilbert didn’t say anything, just gave him an uncomfortable smile. He was very obviously the favourite, and Thomas didn’t blame him for staying silent – it was difficult to relate when you had an entirely different experience of the same circumstance.

Thomas made a dismissive gesture. “You aren’t wrong; she sucks.” Walking to the fridge, he grabbed a can of coconut water, wanting to cleanse the memories of the night with purity. And he wasn't above being openly bitter. “Anyone want one?”

“Yeah, grab one for me,” Peggy called. “And honestly, same. You can’t let her be so snide to you.”

Thomas shrugged. “I’ve moved on. Literally. And she may suck, but at least she isn’t evil or anything.”

“I could lend you a book on dealing with bad parental figures,” John offered seriously. When the entire group turned to him, he shrugged. “My counsellor from when I first moved out recommended it to me and it helped me laugh about it so I’d move on faster.”

“That’s,” Gilbert frowned, “not how you should deal with your issues…”

John shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Thomas didn’t know what to say. He’d never had a group that was there to back him up like this. He felt warm in a way he’d never experienced, and didn’t fight the urge to smile.

“Well, we can add ‘wasting our afternoon’ to the list of things to hate your mother for,” Angelica grumbled. “We have more than half these books left to go through. _Ugh_.”

“Did anyone find anything important?” Maria asked, yawning. She was out of practise from staring at books for an extended amount of time, and increasingly relieved that she’d decided against university.

There was silence.

“Wo-ow,” Thomas said, drawing the word out. “This was a waste of time.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “You know what, I should just go to that fucking house and see if I can’t antagonise it enough to make it talk.”

“That’s legit the worst idea ever,” Eliza told him, “seeing as he’s violent and seems to want to kill.”

“I’ve survived this long, haven’t I,” Thomas said nonchalantly. Damn, that coconut water must really be hitting his compulsive side. “And I’ll take James or Angelica with me so they can help out.” 

“We should all book a private tour so we have more time at the house…” Gilbert said thoughtfully.

“You do realise that means more paperwork for me, right?”

The innocent stare he received gave him his answer.

He sighed. “No more than one a day. Preferably one a week.” It’d give him a legitimate chance to be at the house too; his ‘I need to clean up before they arrive’ excuse was becoming ridiculous. His co-workers probably thought he got off on house-cleaning. 

“We could meet at the library tomorrow,” Eliza offered. “The one near the arts building is always empty.”

“Ew, going back to uni?” John laughed. “I’m in.”

“Works for me, but I’ll need a lift,” Hercules said.

“I’ll pick you up from the orphanage.”

So somehow Thomas was going back to a university to thoroughly read through dusty old—okay that was a lie; some of these books were brand new and he had no idea why Angelica would go out and buy them but it seemed as if she had.

“I’ll get there at like midday,” he conceded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Je suis désolé d’avoir gardé vous attendent, Mère. Excusez-moi - I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mother. Excuse me.
> 
>  
> 
> Oui, allez et vous rafraîchir - Yes, go and freshen up.
> 
>  
> 
> History lesson time!!! (I've missed these)  
> \- So Hercules Mulligan had a shop in 23 Queen Street, and it's known now as Pearl Street.
> 
> \- Totally unrelated to this chapter:  
> He and the Sons of Liberty went and melted down a King George III statue to make bullets which is hilarious
> 
> We can't forget about his slave Cato bc he played a large role in the spywork Mulligan did and it's bc of him that Mulligan was able to save Washington twice as he'd send him out with messages and shit
> 
> Mulligan was worried about being thought of as a Loyalist (bc he'd done his job as spy a little too well) and to show everyone that Mulligan was on their side, Washington had some meal with him (I think it was breakfast but I'm not sure,, going off of memory here =D).
> 
> \- I know I said this before in some other chapter note, but I'll mention it again: Thomas Jefferson wrote down, documented, and kept _everything_ from letters to ledgers. So it's weird that the letters between him and his mother, Jane Jefferson, are basically nonexistent. But it lets me play with her however I want so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Also if anyone's confused about her characterisation in this feel free to ask questions bc I wanted to portray her in a certain way but idk how successful I was.
> 
> Literally any tea knowledge I used in this chapter are from what I've learnt from my friend, whose family runs this tea store.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last piece of pure happy you'll get for a while

With Peggy and James on either side of him, Thomas strutted into the quietest library he’d ever been in.

“Where the fuck were places like this when we were at uni?” he whispered to James in the lowest voice he could manage, not wanting to disturb the eerie silence.

James gave him a look. “They were right where they usually are: far away from your loudness.” 

And from his side came a soft “Oooooh”.

Thomas turned to her in a huff. “Is there no one I can trust? I’m not even loud.” 

“Thomas, you’re like every kind of drunk except happy,” James told him. “There’s a reason I avoided your dorm.”

“What was wrong with my dorm?!”

“The truth comes out, a decade later. Click here for the juicy deets,” Peggy muttered. 

“You and whatshisface had parties nonstop, there were people making out _everywhere_ and probably leaving bodily fluids that neither of you cleaned up afterwards, the music was shit, the food was shit… need I go on?”

Thomas let out an indignant gasp, placing his hand to his chest dramatically. “How dare you accuse me of having shit music! And I served vanilla ice cream and mac ‘n’ cheese and there was even champagne!”

James gave him a withering look, Peggy joining him. “You only served _vanilla_ ice cream?” she asked.

“It’s my favourite flavour!”

“There’s something very wrong with your taste buds if you think vanilla is the best flavour.”

“And what’s yours?” Thomas asked with derision.

“Honey rosemary and caramelised popcorn,” Peggy said smugly. 

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

 

* * *

 

They saw the stack of books before they saw their friends. They were working mostly in silence, but there was music coming from the earphones Hercules was sharing with Gilbert, whose ponytail could be seen bobbing up and down to the beat behind a book.

The two of them looked up when they approached. “Hey,” Hercules said with a smile, quickly followed by a yawn.

“It’s just us?” Thomas asked, unloading the few books he had in his hand onto the table.

“Yes, just us,” Gilbert confirmed, looking at the additions in dismay. “Angelica had something…”

“Yeah, she wanted to come to the house with us but couldn’t make it,” James confirmed.

“And John has work.”

“Did anything happen at the house?” Hercules asked, grabbing another book and opening it to the contents page.

Thomas shrugged. “Just the usual. A few dead insects, a few vases trying to drop on our heads.”

Peggy snorted. “You know, the usual Monday.”

“I mean, it kinda is my typical Monday,” Thomas grinned.

“How old are these tables?” James suddenly asked. “I read somewhere—”

“Jemmy, if you survived the hellish years of actual uni, then you’ll survive a few hours of table touching.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m going to neck myself,” Thomas said, staring down at the page of text.

“That’s another dollar for the suicide jar,” Peggy murmured, making a little tally on her phone. 

“There’s _nothing_  here that we don’t know,” Thomas continued, running his hand through his hair. He winced when it snagged; his hair pampering time had become drastically reduced. He took a large gulp of coconut water to make up for it.

“Okay,” Hercules leaned forward, “what do we know?”

Thomas took a deep breath. “Salt repels them.”

Gilbert laughed. “Isn’t that fictional?” 

“Nah, we tried it today and it’s legit.” He took a deep breath. “And there’s all that stuff on the little herb bags that are meant to repel spirits and cleanse the house that don’t really work.”

James handed him another book. “Here, learn something instead of talking.”

Thomas took it, making a face at James.

 

* * *

 

It took them another five hours to get through all the books. When the final one was placed on the ‘done’ pile, Thomas let out a relieved sigh, sliding down his chair until he was on the floor, where he lay. 

“Thomas, this is a public place,” Peggy said patiently, nudging him with a steeled toe. “That means there’s all kinds of funky shit on the floor. You could _die_.”

“Don’t turn into another James. I don’t think I’d be able to handle that.”

“I am an original,” James said in his most serious voice. “If I were one of those toy things you have—”

“They’re not _toys_ , they’re _collectibles_!”

“I’d be one of the limited editions.”

Thomas raised his arm beseechingly. “Yeah, yeah, now lift me up.”

James walked past him, and Thomas let his arm flop back down. “If you want to crash at my place tonight, you’re gonna have to get up by yourself like the grown ass man you are.”

Immediately brightening, Thomas jumped up. “Gilbert, I’m crashing at James’ place.” He coughed loudly. “Perfect opportunity to have John over.”

Gilbert shoved him good-naturedly. “We aren’t at that stage yet. And I actually need to study tonight to it’ll be good not having to put up with your shitty music.”

“Hah, told you,” James muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

“Y’all have no taste,” Thomas countered. “My music is _beautiful_. For cultured ears.”

“Yeah, cultured like _casu marzu_.”

“ _Burn_ ,” Peggy called, “that was a _burn_.”

Thomas threw his empty can of coconut water at her.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you’re making me _walk_ to your place,” Thomas grumbled as he quickened his pace to keep up with his friend. “This is friend abuse.”

“Thomas, it’s like another few streets,” James said exasperatedly. “And this is good for you. When’s the last time you got any exercise?”

Thomas opened his mouth to respond scathingly, but realised he had no idea. 

James smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

They walked along in silence – but the good kind, the sort of silence that made one feel like they didn’t need to say anything because they were in the company of people who understood them. Until Thomas spotted the worst thing ever.

“Oh my god,” he said.

James glanced at him. “What?”

“That,” he indicated to a house with a jerk of his head, “is the worst possibly hedge maintenance I’ve ever seen.”

There were shrubs surrounding the house like a border, and would probably reach up to Thomas’ knees, but the house was on a slope and the shrubs became larger as the incline got steeper. Which might have worked, had they been well-cut and evenly proportioned.

James hummed in agreement. “Wait till we hit the strawberry yoghurt house.”

“The what?” Thomas laughed. But then they reached the ‘strawberry yoghurt house’ and Thomas couldn’t help wincing at the horrific colour of the house. “Damn, that’s bad. Who the fuck thought that was a good idea?”

James shrugged. “Architecture these days is becoming more and more questionable.”

Thomas had to agree. “Holy shit, that’s legit the ugliest house I’ve ever seen.”

And maybe he said it a bit too loud, because right as he closed his mouth, he realised there was someone standing in the front-yard, glaring at him. _Whoops_. His mouth tried to fix it for him.

“And then Becky was like, ‘no, _that’s_ the ugliest house ever’ and she refused to step inside so we had to have our Starwars LARP session out in the streets!” 

There was now a confused expression on their face and they turned back to watering the plants, shaking their head. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. His methods remained undefeated.

James let out a peal of laughter. “I love the shit your brain comes up with when it’s stressed.”

  

* * *

 

Thomas ended up crashing on James’ couch after an intense Mario Kart session. As he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his mind couldn’t help but go to the very things he didn’t want to think about.

He had to go back to the House tomorrow; Gilbert wanted to scope out the place – he’d only ever seen it from the outside – so he’d booked a private tour. Thomas wondered how much of this was ‘taking scholarly notes’ and how much was actually ‘fulfilling ghost hunter dreams’. He hadn’t forgotten Gilbert’s Ghostbusters phase. 

For some reason, James had placed the _loudest_ clock in this room. Thomas could only just see it because of the sliver of light coming in through the crack in the curtains. It made a sharp _tick_ every time the second hand moved, which was _every second_. 

An hour later, Thomas had tried everything: holding a pillow tightly over his head while his face was squashed into the couch, humming to himself to cover the sound (but then he’d fall asleep and be jerked awake from it by that maddening ticking noise), and wearing headphones (how could he still hear it over the glorious notes of the violin?).

Maybe he should try just taking the batteries out.

So Thomas slowly rose, slipping out of the heavy quilt and walking over to the clock. It was directly above the TV, making it difficult to reach, but Thomas was tall. He plucked it off the wall, feeling the entire clock practically vibrate every time the second hand moved. He located the batteries easily enough, and got rid of them quickly, placing them on the TV unit so James wouldn’t yell at him for wasting. And then he placed it back on the wall.

Or at least, he tried to. But it’d been a long time since he’d done this – he usually left Gilbert to do the manual stuff while he directed; it worked much better that way – and the clock immediately began to fall, sliding down the wall.

Hurrying to catch it, Thomas slammed it against the wall and held it there with a hand. But in doing so, he accidentally kneed the TV in the process, and as he stood there frozen, it rocked back and forth.

Thomas didn’t move, watching with baited breath as the device slowly came back to a stand. And then, when it seemed to be fine, he moved back slowly, lifting his hand off the wall.

There was a crash.

 _Shit_.

He’d forgotten the clock.

Thomas stood there a second, contemplating just going back to sleep. The squishy pillow was calling to him, and the tiled floor was chilly. He should’ve worn socks. He should’ve stolen James’ socks; he always had fluffy patterned ones.

Taking a quick peek behind the TV, Thomas winced at the shattered glass of the clock, and immediately backed away. It was now a health hazard to be there without proper footwear. It was his duty to not do anything. James would freak more if there was blood on the floor. He’d probably want to move. Thomas doing anything now might result in a larger catastrophe. He should ignore it.

Thomas walked to James’ door; he never slept with it shut all the way, which made walking in very easy for people like Thomas who had strange ideas of privacy.

James turned when the door creaked open, but he definitely opened his eyes when Thomas suddenly lifted the covers and climbed in.

“Hey, Jemmy, you should – stop squealing; it’s me – really replace your clock. I’m gonna buy you a better clock. Tomorrow. In the morning.”

“What’d you do to the clock and why’re you here?” James mumbled once he realised he wasn’t being murdered in his bed.

“It was _really loud_ so I went to turn it off and then I dropped it but at least you still have your TV.” Thomas turned and twisted until he was comfortable. 

“Oh my god,” James muttered. “I’m too asleep for this. What the fuck, Thomas.”

“It was _really fucking loud_.”

“Not that. The TV. What’d the TV ever do to you, you clock-killer…” 

“It’s difficult to control limbs when it’s,” he glanced at his phone, only to realise his phone wasn’t there, “I don’t actually know what time it is. I think I left my phone on the couch. You should go there with shoes on. There’s glass and shit.”

“Of course there is.” James sighed and turned onto his back, eyes closed. Thomas would’ve thought he’d fallen asleep had it not been for the fact that he couldn’t hear James’ breathing unless he concentrated; James had a very distinct snore. 

“Jemmy,” Thomas wheedled. “Do you think we should go back to school and get a few more degrees?”

Now James opened his eyes, glancing at Thomas with a quizzical expression. “Why?” 

Thomas shrugged as best as he could while lying on his side. “When you listen to the others talk and what they wanna do and everything, it makes our jobs kinda pointless, doesn’t it?”

James was silent for some time, before he turned to face Thomas. “No, it doesn’t. And you know why? Because we’re providing people with good, affordable housing. We aren’t working for a company that discriminates between the rich and the poor. We’re giving people places to live; we’re working with those charities for the homeless; we’re making a difference in _those_ peoples’ lives.

“If you wanna go back to school because you think it’ll be good for you, then do it. But if you’re going back because you don’t think your job is benefitting the community, then that’s bullshit. There are certain professions that a community needs in order to function properly. This is one of them.” 

Thomas took a breath. “Okay,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Casu marzu](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casu_marzu) is literally 'rotten/putrid cheese' and contains living eggs of insects.
> 
> Historic facts:  
> \- Jefferson's fav ice cream flavour was vanilla.   
> \- He also brought champagne over from France
> 
> (It's late which is why ^^ aren't as detailed as they could be)
> 
> This is possibly the most filler-y chapter I have in this entire fic honestly but now it's all plot and ghosty shit =D


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lol now we're getting somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo I started this chapter on a new word doc since I reacher 100 pages on the original and it was starting to go glitchy,,, which is _wild_
> 
> Same deal as before - mouseover for the French, and clicking on them will take you to the translations and clicking on the translations will take u back to the text =)

“I can’t believe you brought the cat,” Thomas muttered as he opened the door to the House, letting in Gilbert and Pollywaffe.

“She’s already been here once, and she liked it,” Gilbert argued back good-naturedly in the way siblings do. “Besides, I didn’t want her to get lonely.”

Thomas couldn’t look at him – literally. He was dressed in a combination of neon pink and burgundy, and had matched the collar on the cat with his blinding outfit. He somehow even had a feather boa that went with the outfit.

Thomas, in all honesty, thought it clashed _horrendously_ with his own periwinkle blue suit – his second favourite; his magenta one was at the dry cleaners – but he couldn’t imagine a colour that would actually complement the monstrosity Gilbert was wearing.

“Well, she’s your responsibility,” he told Gilbert before closing the door behind them.

“I like this place,” was Gilbert’s first comment. “But it’s a bit dead, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean, ‘dead’?” Thomas asked, coming up beside him.

Gilbert walked over to the apple bowl in the formal living room, and picked out an apple with his fingertips, touching as little of it as he could. And when Thomas walked closer, he could see why. 

“Ew,” he said in disgust. “That’s so gross. Go throw it out and _no don't let it touch me!_ ”

 Gilbert gave him a look. “How did you pass science…” At Thomas’ blank stare, he elaborated, “Dissection?”

“Pfft.” Thomas waved a hand. “We only had to dissect this one time and they let any sensitive souls sit out. It was just a class activity.”

Gilbert muttered something, too low for Thomas to hear. The cat mewled in his arms, fighting to be put down, and shooting out of his clutches when she was finally released. The two watched her streak off to the kitchen, and followed.

“So,” Thomas cleared his throat, “do you want the tour?” 

Gilbert shrugged. “Sure.”

“Okay, so this is the kitchen and family room section. It’s kinda like our place, only bigger and shinier. The—”

A lightbulb shattered overhead, and Thomas sighed, not even bothering to do anything other than close his eyes.

“Enculer,” Gilbert cried as he ducked behind the table.

Thomas opened his eyes, and shook out his hair, hoping there weren’t any pieces of glass in there. Those were a bitch to remove. “It’s okay now; you can come out." 

Gilbert popped his head up. “You deal with this every day?!” He looked around the room suspiciously, as if expecting something else to randomly break. Thomas honestly couldn’t blame him.

“Yeah, I guess. Although it’s different now; it started smoother for me. Hamilton was less death-y.”

Gilbert nodded slowly, and eyed him curiously. “He’s still here, isn’t he? Alex?”

Thomas sighed, getting out a can of coconut water. It was going to be a long day and he needed to be hydrated. “He is. He just isn’t as strong, I don’t think. He’ll pop in randomly if the ghost is doing anything particularly bad.”

“Like?”

He shrugged. “It tried pushing me down the stairs this one time and Hamilton stopped me from actually falling down them… and then this one time it threw a knife at me and I’m pretty sure Hamilton shifted it away.”

Gilbert’s eyebrows rose. “I see why they didn’t want you here alone. Amour non conventionnel, mais il est encore,” he muttered. 

Thomas spluttered, choking on the drink. “Shut it! He understands French!” 

“Yes, I know.” Thomas scowled at the smug smile Gilbert gave him. “I ship it.”

Thomas could feel the blood rushing to his face and his ears, and dammit, he wasn’t dark-skinned to the point where that much redness could be overlooked. “Moving to the next room,” he muttered.

“Are we just going to leave the glass here?”

“Yes we are. It’ll give me another excuse to come back if I have something to actually clean up.”

  

* * *

 

They went through the first level of the house relatively peacefully, which put Thomas on edge more than incidents would’ve. He was tense, mind trying to be ready for anything at any moment.

“This is _boring_ ,” Gilbert whined from behind him. “How do you deal with this all day…”

“Um,” Thomas said. “It’s my job? I’m being paid? And no one asked you to come.”

“I wanted to see the house. And experience the ghosty-ness,” Gilbert said simply, running his finger over a piece of furniture. “There’s no dust. What do you do, dust this place every day?”

“As a matter of fact, I dusted right before you arrived. Also, the ghost keeps opening and closing the windows and it kinda helps?”

“We should ask Alex to bring some of his nicer dead friends to our place when he’s awake,” Gilbert mused, startling Thomas with his optimistic view on Hamilton’s condition. It’d been caution and half-hope for so long that this was a very welcome change.

“Pfft, the cat would never be able to deal—shit.” His eyes met Gilbert’s, both widened in the realisation that they’d completely forgotten about the cat.

 

* * *

 

“Polly! Here, kitty…” Thomas called, checking under the beds upstairs. There was no cat to be found, the situation made more challenging by the fact that Pollywaffle had a tendency to hide in strange places that she shouldn’t’ve fit into but somehow did.

Thomas didn’t care where she was, as long as she was still alive when they found her. He violently shoved away the thought of seeing her like every other dead creature in the house ended up. He could hear Gilbert calling out her name, shaking a tin of cat treats.

Taking a breath, he resumed his call, hoping she’d move or make a noise. “Polly, c’mon. We’ve got _dinner_ and we can go _home_ after this!” Those were keywords that she occasionally responded to, but this time there was nothing.

When he’d thoroughly checked the second story of the house twice, he finally admitted defeat and traipsed downstairs. But not before the each of the small paintings hung up by the wall flung through the air at his face.

Ducking, he watched as all three of them fell to the ground. “For fuck’s sake, those were Anh Do!” he yelled.

Gilbert came running in. “What happened?”

“This mouldy onion is trying to ruin perfectly good artwork,” Thomas grouched, bending to pick them up, carefully examining them to make sure they weren’t damaged. “I think it’s time to use our ghostly influence to find our cat.” 

“…why couldn’t we’ve done that from the start?” 

“Because,” Thomas said petulantly.

“Est-ce que leur amant guêtres vont ressembler?” Gilbert wondered.

Thomas punched him in the shoulder, leaving him there by the stairs rubbing it while he walked to where he’d placed him bag and got out the whiteboard.

“Hamilton?” he called out. “You there? We, uh… we kinda lost our cat. Can you find her?”

There was the weird sensation of being watched, and then the shift in the air that Thomas now associated with ghostly presence. But this time it was barely there, a gentle breeze where there’d once been the equivalent to a hurricane. 

 _try garden_  

Hamilton was conserving his energy as much as he could. Which meant he was even more depleted than they'd assumed he would be. Thomas frowned, suddenly more concerned than he’d been since the night Hamilton flatlined after disappearing. “Are you alright?”

_fine_

_just tired_

Thomas wasn’t satisfied with the response, but he nodded. Gilbert, who’d been watching the whole exchange with careful eyes, walked up. “So she might be in the garden?”

“Yeah. Hold on, lemme find the key…”

And then they were walking around the backyard, trying to spot a furry creature amongst the grass and plants. Thomas had never noticed how many tiny nooks and crannies there were in the yard, but he was definitely seeing them all now. 

“You suck at maintaining all this,” Gilbert commented as they walked along. 

“If there’s anything dead, it’s probably the ghost. And we've got people to maintain the garden.”

"Well, your people suck."

It was true that the place seemed to be dying more than it had even a week ago. Thomas honestly blamed everything on the evil ghost. What had once been a peaceful area was now making shivers run down his spine. He kept glancing around, eyes constantly moving as they tried to see what his subconscious was telling him was there.

“The grass is yellowing—wait, ghosts kill plants.” Gilbert stopped dead. “Thomas.”

“What?” Thomas felt his skin crawl.

“What if the apartment if haunted?” Gilbert whispered in a voice that was practically a hiss, as if this fictional ghost might be able to hear him. “And that’s why the plants keep dying?”

 Thomas let out a breath. “Dude, if our apartment was haunted, I’m sure the ghost would do worse than just kill of a bunch of plants.”

“Maybe—” Gilbert was cut off by a scraping noise that sent the two of them racing around the house to the other side.

Pollywaffle was there digging in the dirt, tail wiggling as her paws moved. She was just below a tree – one of the original ones in the area that had been left there and built around, with massive branches that needed to be trimmed every few months.

“Polly,” Gilbert said in relief, echoing Thomas’ sentiments. “You’re alive!”

“Oh my god, please don’t let it be a dead mouse or bird or anything,” Thomas prayed half-heartedly; he was just glad to see the cat. It could be digging up the neighbour's pet rabbit for all he cared.

Gilbert crouched down next to her, picking her up. She went with him without complaint, especially when Thomas knelt down and unearthed the object she’d been pawing.

“What is it?” Gilbert asked, hugging Pollywaffle.

“It’s…” Thomas frowned, peering closer. “It’s a compass. One of the old-fashioned kind that have photos or locks of hair in them or some— _shit._ ”

There was a cracking sound from above, and Thomas and Gilbert looked up to see a branch that was at least ten metres above them start to break off the trunk of the tree. Thomas scrambled to his feet, moving away in a rush. Gilbert did the same, but didn’t anticipate the extra weight and movement of the cat and fell backwards. He started crawling away, eyes fixed on the breaking branch as he tried to get to his feet and keep up his backward movement. 

Thomas rushed to him and grasped him by the arm, pulling him upward and away as fast as he could. But it didn’t work as well as either of them expected; they were a mess of long limbs and attempts to keep the cat from being squashed.

Pollywaffle jumped out of Gilbert’s hold and pelted away, and Thomas and Gilbert were too involved in moving to note her direction. Having no idea how big the branch’s reach would be, they stumbled back as far as they could, avoiding the house in case the ghost decided to take control and smash it into the building.

Finally, the branch collapsed to the ground with a loud _thud_ , making dirt and dust and all sorts of debris fly up, as well as creating a fairly deep crater in the ground. Thomas, on the ground with his hand over his head, shielding it, peeked out.

Gilbert groaned from beside him somewhere, and he snapped his head towards him. “You okay?” he asked, crawling to his feet.

 “Fine. I can’t believe your stupid ghost tried to kill us with a tree.”

Thomas snorted humourlessly. “Yeah, definitely worse than the knife and stair situations.”

“I can't believe this is our life. We need to find the cat again,” Gilbert groaned. “How do you keep coming back here? This place is _haunted_ and spooky as shit.”

Thomas shrugged helplessly. “I guess it’s worse for you since you’re getting a full hit of the evil poltergeist shit. Maybe I’m more used to it because I’ve been here while the level’s been slowly amped up.”

“Is this what Stockholm Syndrome is?” Gilbert wondered.

“Gilbert, no! This isn’t anything like Stockholm Syndrome! For one, I’m not a prisoner.”

“But you’re still coming back here every day, and making excuses to spend more time here than you need to be.” Gilbert’s forehead crinkled. “I know you told the others you wouldn’t come here alone, but promise me you won’t come here unless you absolutely have to. It isn’t safe, not even with Alex.”

Thomas glanced back at the house. He didn’t know why he felt so drawn to it, why he hung around the place so much. He’d never done anything like this with his other houses, even though some of them he would’ve seriously considered buying had he been in the market for houses. Maybe it was the magnetic field Hamilton had, or maybe it was something else. 

“Okay,” he conceded. “I promise.”

Gilbert nodded. “Now let’s find that cat.”

 

* * *

 

Gilbert fiddled with the compass on the drive home – Thomas didn’t trust him to drive – trying to get it to open. Pollywaffle sat in the backseat, strapped in. She’d been easier to find this time; they’d spotted her dirty pawprints leading into the house when they walked by the sliding door, and it was a very quick search after that.

“Find anything?” Thomas asked, glancing to the passenger seat.

“Not yet,” Gilbert murmured, head bowed. “There are initials engraved into it. ‘ _J.A’_.”

“I’ll take it to Angelica and see if she can use her mysterious source to tell us more about it. Maybe there’s something in there that’ll help us find him. Or we can summon Hamilton again, if we really need to, and see is he knows anything new.”

Gilbert hummed. “We could ask one of our archaeology professors too. This thing looks ancient, and I don’t think it’s just the dirt. It’s shiny when it’s polished, so it was well-kept, but it's at least a century old.”

“Definitely. Grandfather had one like it stashed away somewhere. Elizabeth and I kept trying to snoop in his things when we visited, but we could never find it unless he showed it to us.”

Gilbert had never met this grandfather, and didn't inquire further. He didn't find there was much point in dwelling on people long lost. “I’ll wait till we get home and try prying it open with something.” Sighing, Gilbert threw it into the air, catching it, and repeating, until Thomas snatched it out and sat on it. “Quit distracting the driver, baguette breath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  
> 
> Encuder - Fuck  
> Amour non conventionnel, mais il est encore - Unconventional, but it is still love  
> Est-ce que leur amant guêtres vont ressembler?” - Is this what their lover spats are going to be like?  
> 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves we're meeting Angelica's source

Angelica turned the compass over in her hands, studying it with a magnifying glass that looked like it’d belonged to Nancy Drew. Thomas had no idea where she’d gotten it from – or why, for that matter.

“Okay,” Angelica finally said, “I think we should just use blunt force.”

“Um,” Eliza chimed up from across the room, “no? Brute force is never the answer.” She was sitting at the dining table, which had been cleared of all its usual clutter and decorative items, with Maria, a laptop in front of them. They were planning for the upcoming end-of-year party held at the orphanage. 

“Sometimes it is.” And with that, Angelica plucked a pair of scissors from somewhere and motioned for Thomas to hold the compass.

Thomas stared at her with frightened eyes. “Fuck no.” 

“Thomas, c’mon…” Angelica sighed. “That incident with the scissors was only one time, okay? It’ll be fine this time.”

“That’s what you said last time. How ‘bout you hold the compass and I do the scissor thing?”

“Sure,” Angelica agreed readily. “See how much I trust you? Now hold on while I get heavy-duty gloves. I need these hands.”

“Wo- _ow_ ,” Thomas drawled. He practised stabbing the compass while he waited, trying to pry it open while holding it with one hand.

It didn’t budge.

Thomas couldn’t understand it. Unless it was magically sealed – because then he _really_ didn’t understand it – it should’ve at least dented by this point. Angelica’s first reaction had been to drop it, and they’d both been surprised at it remaining unmarked. 

“Okay, go for it,” Angelica said, holding it out towards him.

Thomas shoved the scissors in the tiny little gap where it was supposed to open, and he squeezed as hard as he could. There was a glorious moment where he thought it was working, until there was a tiny cracking noise and the scissors began to break instead. Groaning, he released the pressure, and went to the knife and hammer.

 

* * *

 

“This isn’t working,” Angelica commented after they’d gone through all the tools lined up on the bench. “I’m going to take it to my source.”

“And who is this ‘source’?” Thomas asked suspiciously. “How come they know so much, and how did _you_ meet them?”

Angelica gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I have my ways.” When Thomas continued staring at her, she sighed. “I’ll tell you later, okay? But if I go now, he’ll have time to figure it out today.”

“A ‘he’, then,” Thomas noted.

“I told you; I’ll fill you in later.” And with that, Angelica left with her car keys and the compass, closing the door behind her quietly and leaving Thomas to sit around listening to Eliza and Maria plan their party. 

 

* * *

 

Angelica came back with someone else. He was about as tall as she currently was – with four inch heels – and about as broad-shouldered as Thomas. His dark skin was practically glowing, emitting some sort of inner light, and there was a kind of aura surrounding him that made Thomas feel at ease faster than he usually did with strangers. His hair was shaved close to his head, a look that was strangely suiting.

“Guys,” Angelica cleared her throat. “This is John Church. He’s my source.” She didn’t once look at him, but he glanced at her throughout the introduction. Thomas hid a smirk. Was _this_ what Angelica was hiding? A lover? Or was it one-sided?

“Thomas Jefferson,” he introduced himself, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you,” John Church replied, shaking his hand with a firm grip. He had a deep voice and an English accent. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“I wish I could say the same,” Thomas chuckled with a pointed glance at Angelica. His mind sent alarm bells ringing when, instead of replying with a typical Angelica Schuyler response, she glanced at Church and looked away, saying nothing.

Eliza quickly stepped in before the silence became too profound. “Elizabeth Schuyler. And this is Maria, my friend.”

They gathered around the table Eliza and Maria had been working at, with Church and Angelica sitting on opposite ends. Thomas hadn’t had a chance to use his psychology knowledge on such an interesting relationship in a very long time, and he was milking every second of it.

“We opened the compass,” Church began. “It contained—Actually, here. Look for yourselves.”

He slid the compass to the centre of the table, and Thomas, Eliza, and Maria leaned forward to get a look. It was fairly ordinary; the needle of the compass on one side of the circular device, and a lock of light brown hair on the other.

Thomas wrinkled his nose. “Gross,” he complained, moving back, “it’s dead-guy hair.”

He received a plethora of looks that made him feel like a chastised child. 

“So what did you find out about it?” Maria asked Church.

He folded his arms on the table, looking at them gravely. “I’m part of a coven. We channelled the energy of the compass to see if we could find out anything about its owner.” He took a breath. “He is named John André. He was hanged a few centuries ago, for being a spy. He’s the sort of spirit who will enter an area and suck the life force out of other spirits in the vicinity, and all that power goes to him.”

He ran a hand over his mouth before continuing. “I have a list of things we can try to flush him out of your house.” He pulled out a few sheets of paper, placing them by the compass. “Angie—Angelica filled me in on your situation, and our best guess for why your friend hasn’t died yet is because his life force is different, since he’s alive. We don’t know how much longer he’ll stay alive, though, so the first thing we need to do is free him from the spirit’s clutches."

Thomas let out a breath, moving from the fixed position he’d been frozen in while Church had been talking. He was tenser than he’d realised, and it was a relief to finally have someone with them who actually had an idea of what was going on, and a way to solve it. Pulling the piece of paper towards him, he skimmed through it.

“We’ve tried the cleansing thing,” Thomas told Church. “It didn’t really do much. But that was back before we had the second ghost, so I don’t know if it’ll work this time or not.”

But Church was already shaking his head. “We can’t risk using it before separating your friend—”

“Alex,” Eliza cut in softly. “His name’s Alexander.”

Church nodded. “Before separating Alexander from the spirit. It might take them both together.”

 

* * *

 

“Is this everyone?” Peggy asked, glancing around the room.

They were all – yes, all; they’d used whatever excuses they could to get out of their obligations – gathered in the Schuyler’s living room, with a massive whiteboard in the centre and a bunch of markers all around.

Church had disappeared into a guest room while everyone had made their way there, and emerged in trackpants and a hoodie. He looked almost normal, like a student, but there was still a self-assurance about him that told Thomas how powerful he was.

He took a seat before Angelica did, and Angelica sat right next to him.

“Yeah, should be,” Eliza murmured distractedly, doing a headcount.

“Well, we’re getting started. We don’t know how much time Alex has, and we can’t risk wasting any because we’re waiting for someone.” Angelica clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

“Okay, gang. According to Church – we’ve already got a John; you should’ve come sooner – we need to do this spell ritual thing,” Peggy gestured to a sheet of paper, “to separate Alex and the evil ghost. And then we can get rid of him.”

“Okay,” John Laurens leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What if the ghost comes instead, when we try separating the two of them?”

“What do you mean?” Church asked, frowning slightly.

“Maybe I’ve seen too many supernatural movies, but what if, instead of extracting Alexander outta there, we bring in the other one, and he’s the guy that ends up in Alex’s body?”

There was a muttered, “The fuck do you _watch_?” from John’s left, where Gilbert and Hercules sat.

Church shook his head. “The spell requires something from Alexander’s body – a strand of hair, a nail clipping, anything – to bind him to the spell. So to prevent the other ghost from coming, all we need to do is make sure this lock of hair stay far away.”

John nodded, satisfied.

“Okay, so we need to distract the ghost while we grab Alex,” Angelica said. She looked at Thomas apologetically. “Thomas…”

“It’s chill, Angelica,” he said, even though his heart had begun pounding at the mere thought of going to the house for the sole purpose of taunting a ghost out to kill him. “I’ve survived this long. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m coming,” James and Gilbert said simultaneously. They glanced at each other, sat on opposite corners of the room.

“Me, too,” said Aaron, much to everyone’s surprise.

Thomas looked at him. “Why? Out of everyone here, you’ve kept as far away from the place as possible.”

Aaron looked at them with resignation. “I’m not a fan of the supernatural. I’m not a fan of anything I don’t know enough about. But I found out pretty recently that,” he took a deep breath, and Peggy grabbed his hand, “my parents were witches. I was part of some coven till they died and for some reason, my grandparents never told us anything. And they’re dead now, too. So maybe I’ll be useful, maybe I won’t be.”

What.

Thomas couldn't hide his surprise. This had come out of nowhere. Aaron Burr, his friend, who he'd known for  _years_ , was a witch?!

“What’s your surname, if you don’t mind me asking?” Church asked.

“Burr.”

Church’s eyes remained thoughtful. “I could ask my coven about your family. If you wanted me to, that is.”

Aaron hesitated, but then nodded. “Thanks, I'd like that. After all this.”

Church inclined his head.

“Okay, so that’s me, James, Gilbert, and Aaron.” Thomas wrote the names down on the board as he said them.

“And me,” Angelica spoke, grabbing a marker and adding her own name to the list.

“I’m sure four is plenty—” Church began, furrowing his brow.

“I won’t be of any help with the ritual, but I’ll be damned if I stay back while my friends are facing a murderous spirit,” Angelica interrupted, eyes suddenly lit with anger as she turned to him for the first time since they'd all gathered.

Church only nodded, averting his eyes and looking back at the board. “That leaves the rest of you to help me with the extraction,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Wait.” Eliza looked like she was about to raise her hand, like one would in school. “What then? Do we have a plan for after?”

“We have two options. We can cleanse the house from the outside, which we’d need to wait for Alexander to wake up for to do so, since the spell would include an actual powered witch this time. Or we can perform,” he scrounged around in his briefcase, “this. It’s an exorcism type of thing, only not for demonic creatures, and it requires being in the presence of the spirit to perform. But it’ll get rid of it as soon as the entire thing’s chanted, and it can’t come back till it claws its way out of wherever spirits go. Hell, maybe.”

There was a short silence before Gilbert spoke up. “And Alex isn’t harmed if we do the exorcism?”

“No, he should be fine. And even if he’s still there, his soul is still on this plane of existence.”

“Hang on.” John frowned. “Don’t we need to burn whatever it is that’s tethering the spirit to the house?”

“We’ll do that from the Washingtons’ place when Alexander is okay, and then you can start your thing.”

“The exorcism thing sounds like the safer option,” Thomas surmised, “even though it’s more dangerous for us. But the ghost has access to the outskirts of the property too, so it’s not like we’d be safe outside the house, either.”

“And it’s better for Alex,” Gilbert added.

Church looked at them and sighed. “Look, the thing with Alexander is that this isn’t exactly a normal situation. No one I’ve spoken to has had to deal with anything like this. So I’m going off on a theory. Which is that, because his soul has nowhere else to go, it’ll go back to his body. He isn’t on life-support – he’s still alive. He _should_ be fine.”

Thomas didn’t want to do this out of the mere chance that Hamilton would wake up and be okay. He didn’t want to take the chance that he was killing off someone because of a decision he’d made. But this was a two-way street, and the end destination was still foggy at best. He’d have to take a chance and hope that Hamilton’s survival skills were enough to pull him through.

“The exorcism,” Thomas repeated, voice not betraying his inner thoughts. “We’re doing the exorcism."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loL SO MANY OF YOU THOUGHT IT WAS JOHN ADAMS 
> 
> History lesson!
> 
> \- John André was a British officer during the Revolutionary War, and he was hanged for helping Benedict Arnold's attempted surrender during some battle. Hamilton went to Washington on Andre's behalf and asked if he could be shot instead of hanged, but Washington didn't budge, and Andre was dressed in civilian clothing and hung.
> 
> \- Hamilton apparently said that Andre was too pretty to be hung.
> 
> \- Lafayette cried at the hanging. Basically, everyone loved him. I felt kinda bad for making him the villain but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ he was a spy
> 
> \- Andre lived with Benjamin Franklin for like nine months, and then when the British came, he looted the place, including a painting of Franklin, which now hangs in the White House.
> 
> \- Hamilton wrote this letter to Laurens about André during the time he was imprisoned and awaiting his execution, and he was intrigued by him (and possibly idolised him, because he went to visit him a fair few times while he was imprisioned and there was like a page in the letter dedicated to talking about his merits,, + the decision Washington made to hang him was the only time he openly opposed him) and he wrote "There was something singularly interesting in the character and fortunes of Andre." He also wrote at the end: "It is a new comment on the value of an honest man, and, if it were possible, would endear you to me more than ever. Adieu." (which I reckon is a 'sorry for going on for ten pages about this other hot guy after not replying to your letter for ages you're still my fav')  
> (The letter was the longest one he ever wrote to Laurens lol.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much stuff breaks jfc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *updates 2 chapters in a day and another a few days later*  
> also me: *updates a wk later even tho im on break*
> 
> Okay warning for this chapter: this is where the possession part comes in and a lot of it is in Thomas' head

Thomas walked into the House. He had with him his usual briefcase—

 _“Make sure nothing changes,” Angelica had stressed. “The ghost can’t know we’re planning on doing what we’re doing.”_

—and there was a box of items the others would need in the trunk of Angelica’s car. Because the ghost (and Thomas knew that they could refer to him by name, but that made it too humanising, too real) was able to leave the house and roam the rest of the property, they had to make sure they didn’t loiter around in the car as a group. They didn’t know whether his reach would allow him to hear what they were saying.

Thomas went straight to the living room and began unloading his things, as usual. His heart was thumping madly, and he hoped that the ghost couldn’t sense it. Hell, he hoped _Hamilton_ couldn’t sense it. It did no one any good if he became a nervous wreck.

Grabbing a can of coconut water – his fifth that day; it was like his alternative to coffee and alcoholic beverages – he took small sips. He’d need all the help he could get if he were to pull this off without a hitch.

The first thing he had to do was find the ghost. He needed it to be inside the house, in this room. There was only one sure-fire way of doing that, and that was literally annoying it enough to come to him. He wished he’d written his will before this.

Thomas had no idea how to piss off a ghost enough for it to attack him, but he’d lived with siblings enough to know how to anger them within minutes. Even in adulthood, his and Gilbert’s relationship was a mixture of mutual affection and childish competitiveness that was occasionally unbalanced by one of them behaving like, what his father had called, ‘cat’s mind  trapped within a hedgehog’s’. Thomas was still trying to figure out that particular wording.

But nevertheless, he had a lot of practise with being a pain in the ass. Thomas started humming the Smurf song. He had earphones in, which were connected to his phone and currently on call to the rest of the group. If they got annoyed, it would surely work on a creature prone to fits of rage.

“Oh, fuck no,” he heard James mutter.

Swallowing a smirk, he began to actually sing. “La, la, la-la la la, la, la-la, la, la,” he sung under his breath. Then, without pausing, he continued the tune, pretending to be dusting the place as he belted it at the top of his lungs.

A light right above his shattered. It was working. Thomas brushed the tiny shards of glass off his head. He'd deal with that later Now for the next stage…

Thomas hung up on the team by pressing the power button on his phone – a nifty little trick he’d discovered buried in the settings late one night. He then accessed his call history and called them again, pretending to be talking to James.

“Jemmy,” he greeted overly-enthusiastically. “I need to tell you something. It’s great; you’ll love it.”

“Say ‘I want to eat mac ‘n’ cheese’ if you’re in trouble. If it’s time, say the code phrase,” James said anxiously.

“Do you wanna hear a ghost joke?” Thomas fiddled around with the sharp edges of the can in his hand. 

“No.”

“That’s the spirit!” 

“I hate you.”

“Fuck—the feather boa is purple! The feather boa is purple!” Thomas shouted the code phrase into the phone, narrowly avoiding the knife that was suddenly coming right at his face.

Ducking down behind the counter, he waited with bated breath as the kitchen around him fell silent again. Softly, but gaining volume, as if to calm himself, he began to hum the Smurf song once again, clicking a pen in his hand to the tune.

And then there was chaos.

The lights that hung low over the kitchen counter began to swing violently, but there was no breeze that Thomas could feel. The tap was turned on, and after a moment of fresh water, started to squirt out bits of dirt and mud along with it. The kitchen seats seemingly dragged themselves out and began barricading the doors leading to the exit, and the door to the backyard started to unlock itself.

The ghost wanted him to go to the yard. Did it plan on killing and burying him? For a creature that would face no consequences for murder, it was strangely efficient.

Thomas glanced outside, on his hands and knees, and a tremor went through him at the sight of the yard. The ground was dead; the grass was yellow and brittle, and all the flowers were shrivelled up. There were bits and pieces of the ground strewn everywhere, as if the ghost had had a temper tantrum. But worst of all was the noose hanging from a thick branch on the big tree.

Thomas needed the others to hurry up and do their job. Because if they were unsuccessful, Hamilton wouldn’t be the only one dying that day.

 

* * *

 

There was a crash and Thomas leapt to his feet as James, Angelica, Gilbert, and Aaron burst into the room, carrying two massive sacks of rock salt and a scrap of paper with the chant written on it.

Aaron quickly lay a line of salt across the entrance they’d just walked through, ensuring that the ghost wouldn’t escape that way. The other three walked along the perimeter of the room, encasing it with salt.

“Do we need to salt along the wall?” Gilbert asked, shouting over the sound of the tap gurgling. “On Supernatural they only do the windows and doors.” 

“Supernatural is fictional! And it’s stupid to think that the ghost won’t be able to go through the walls!” Angelica shouted back. Her hair was frizzing up more than usual, a result of her running her hands through it due to the stressful situation.

“Okay, we—” A vase flew through the air, aimed at James’ head. But just as quickly, another vase intercepted it, colliding with it mid-air and creating a giant mess as the two crashed to the floor. Thomas was so relieved he’d stopped bringing glass vases to the House. 

“Was that…” Gilbert breathed. “Alexander?”

Writing appeared on the walls – _the pristine white wall_ , Thomas lamented – in mud.

_the fuck r u doing r u insane_

“Hamilton, chill. We have a plan,” Thomas reassured him, laughing slightly at the relief of being able to communicate with him again. He hadn’t realised how much he enjoyed these conversations – no matter how limited – until they were gone. 

 _ur plans suck ur gon die_    

“Are you making fun of my accent?” Thomas questioned incredulously. “At a time like—”

“Duck!” Aaron yelled, and everyone stopped what they were doing and hit the ground.

A branch flung itself through the open window, seeming to have a life of itself as it repeatedly jabbed in and out.

“This is like the Whomping Willow,” Angelica hissed, crawling over to the rocksalt and throwing a handful at the branch. It wasn’t as effective as Thomas would’ve liked; the branch moved back slightly, and then returned once more. 

"At least they had magic," Gilbert grumbled. "We're just people. Unfit people."

"Pfft, speak for yourself. I could do this all day," Thomas said, but even he could feel it; he hadn't been exercising as regularly as he should be, ever since this ghost business had taken off.

“Tag yourself, I’m the knife embedded in the wall,” James announced breathlessly as he raced to the last side of the room to salt it.

“James, oh my god. This is not the time,” Gilbert groaned. “But if this is the last chance I ever get to meme… I’m the broken vase on the sofa.” 

“I’m me getting out of here alive,” Angelica grunted, trying in vain to stop the flow of what was now purely mud coming out of the taps. The sludge had mixed with… something, giving it a grey tinge, and was dripping onto the floor in a pool. Thomas hoped it wouldn't stain, and then silently scolded himself for thinking of the house and its furnishings in the situation they were in.

At the sounds of ‘Angie, c’mon!’ and ‘that’s cheating! It hasn’t happened yet!’, Angelica replied, “I don’t have time for Tumblr shit like tagging myself as something to suit my self-esteem, so I'm going to use the power of positive thinking and hope that the universe hates the idea of me tagging myself as something that hasn't happened yet.”

There was a thoughtful lull in the conversation as they all pondered over this, before Aaron spoke up. “I’m the chair sitting alone in that corner.” 

No sooner had he said this than the chair he had been referring to threw itself at him. Letting out a high-pitched screech, Aaron leapt onto the couch, but the chair followed him. Thomas ran to the nearest bag of rocksalt and chucked handfuls at the chair, hoping for it to ease in its pursuit.

James yanked Aaron out of the way and it crashed into a wall, leaving a sizeable hole but backing out of the space immediately and resuming its chase. Cursing, Gilbert threw himself onto the chair, grabbing onto its legs, but the legs came off the minute his weight had begun to drag it down.

And then it stopped mid-air, as if it were being blocked by an invisible force. _Hamilton_. The chair shook, trying to use brute force to bypass him, but Hamilton had either gained more power, or Andre’s ghost wasn’t using as much force in this as he could’ve been; the chair dropped to the ground, abandoned.

Either way, they had to work fast. Hamilton was draining his energy by using it to protect them. 

“Guys, they’ve texted. It’s time!”

The other team had set up their own ritual to summon Hamilton’s spirit back into his own body, and now it was time for them to start theirs; the one for Hamilton would only take a second to work, and after that they were on their own in the house.

Angelica fished out the piece of paper from her pocket, as well as another laminated version—

_“Shit always get burned or dunked into water on horror movies,” John had complained. “And we can’t have it on our phones in case the tech dies. That happens a lot, too.”_

_“John,” Gilbert had kissed him fondly, “we know. We don’t live under a rock.”_

_“Um,” Eliza had said, “speak for yourself. I don’t watch horror movies.” There had been a momentary pause where all of them had stared at her._

—that she handed to Aaron. And then they began reciting together, while Gilbert, Thomas, and James were in charge of covering them.

Everything was fine for some time; there were still the occasional flying knife that one of them would intercept with another hard object, or pull down everyone to avoid being hit, and the chair legs had all become separated from the chair and was behaving not unlike stakes.

But it was manageable—

And then Thomas felt it. He could feel its slimy grip as it neared him. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. He could sense it. His skin prickled and his body rebelled as it took control over him. He tried to warn the others but it was too late. He couldn’t control his mouth.

And then he was moving, faster than he’d ever moved, sprinting to the living room where the broken lights and vases had left sharp shards all over the place. He fought as well as he could, but his arm reached and he grabbed it, tight enough that he could feel it digging into his flesh.

“Thomas? What’re you…” James asked, looking at him in confusion.

Thomas screamed at James to run, to get away, but no one heard a single sound he made. He neared James, legs taking steps he hadn’t given consent to, and he could hear the sound of the glass crunching beneath his feet as he walked deliberately slow, like a predator with its prey.

“Argh!”

Thomas couldn’t close his eyes. The ghost demanded that he remain awake for everything, ever present but completely helpless. He had no way of doing anything as his arm plunged the piece into James’ side.

“No,” he screamed inside his head. “No, no, no…”

James was grabbing at the knife with desperate and bloody fingers, breaths coming in short gasps. Gilbert crouched down next to him, grabbing at his hands and forcing them to still. “Okay,” he said. “James, you’re gonna be okay. Look at me.”

And then suddenly he felt a wave of pain himself, and staggered back, shoulder blade hitting the wall and his body staying there as if it were pinned to it. He could hear Angelica and Aaron chanting, but this time they were shouting two different things.

Gilbert grabbed James, a sweater wrapped around where the knife was embedded. He lifted James up, and staggered with him to the doorway, careful not to disturb the salt. Thomas couldn’t move, but this time it was his body that couldn’t, and he was infinitely relieved.

He could feel something being dragged out of himself. It felt like the time he’d gotten superglue on his skin, and had tried to pry it off with his fingers. It had been sticky, clinging to his skin like it had a right to be there, and once he’d finally gotten off the massive chunk, it had taken parts of his skin with it.

Thomas could hear Angelica’s frantic voice shouting in ancient languages, Aaron’s calmer voice speeding through the chanting. He could feel the ghost’s grip on him finally start to ebb away, and he let himself give in to the blackness that was on the edge of his vision.

 

* * *

 

Miles away, Alexander Hamilton opened his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ghost joke in the first part of the chapter was inspired by [this](https://lamsandmullettetext.tumblr.com/post/168517101733/phillip-do-you-want-to-hear-a-joke-about-ghosts)
> 
> So I realised right after writing this that I'm gonna be leaving u guys on a p cruel cliffy whoops. I won't be able to update until february at least and I'm rly sorry about the long wait but I promise that I will be finishing this. We've got like three chapters to go lol =D


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas wakes up and I finally get to write a non comatose Hamilton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (it's like 34ºC kms)
> 
> Hi!! I'm back =D and here's the next chapter whcih is like double the size of the typical chapter which wasn't supposed to happen but then a bunch of the scenes became longer than they were meant to but I doubt anyone rly objects lol seeing how I made everyone wait two months for it

Thomas woke with a start, hands grappling around in desperation, but for what, he didn’t know. He didn’t yet have the _capacity_ for logical thought, which would’ve typically sent him in a panicky spiral, but now didn’t even register as strange. His heart was racing, mouth gasping for breath like he’d been submerged underwater for some time.

And then there were more hands, a pair coming to his shoulders and holding him in place, while another pair grabbed his own.

Suddenly, he could make out words, but they seemed to be coming from a distance, distorted. It reminded him of that time he’d first been learning French from Gilbert, where he could understand fragments, bits here and there if spoken at the textbook speed and tone, but not when his parents and Gilbert would converse during dinner in rapid tongues, the language coming out of their mouths in what had felt to Thomas like a stream of nonsense that was _just_ beyond his grasp.

Someone was counting ( _James_ , his mind jumped to) in French, and he mentally followed along, his lips eventually mouthing the words that’d become so familiar in the long, long time since he’d been at those family dinners. And then after some time – he had no idea if it had been seconds or minutes or perhaps hours – he could make out another voice.

“—omas,” it said tentatively, “can you hear me? You don’t have to—”

He nodded, about to answer audibly when the memory of the past few hours washed over him and he shut his eyes tightly as though his eyelids would provide refuge from them, a part of him preferring that wild state he’d been in to the knowledge he once again possessed.

“James?” he rasped out. “Is he—” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question. There was no reconciling the idea in his mind that he could have been the reason for his best friend’s death, that he may have caused something like that, something so big yet so small in the whole scheme of things…

“He’s fine,” the voice said gently, pulling him away from his desperately existential thoughts and back to himself. “We called Laf while you were out, and he said that James should make a full recovery. The blade might’ve been sharp, but it didn’t go in very deep.” 

Thomas finally glanced up at the speaker, finally being able to open his eyes and mind to this world where James Madison was still alive and breathing. Angelica smiled down at him, concern clear in her eyes. They were seated in the backseat of a car, his head resting in her lap in a manner that was very much illegal. Turning his head to the side, Thomas could see Aaron’s face as he drove, glancing to the side to give him a relieved smile. He assumed Hercules was in the seat in front of Angelica’s. 

“What happened?” he asked, getting up properly and buckling his seatbelt. It wouldn’t do to survive a – his mind shuddered away from the term ‘possession’ because that meant so much more than what it sounded like in the first go; it was violation and control with no consent and left the most bitter and filthy feeling all over Thomas, like he could wash and wash but he’d never get rid of the stench that seemed to be filling his very soul – and then die in a car crash, his mind finished, closing a lid on his previous thoughts like one would over a rubbish bin.

Angelica glanced at Aaron in the rearview mirror, and Thomas felt a sinking sense of trepidation in his stomach and swallowed roughly. 

“After Laf took James, we trapped you in a salt ring and did an exorcism. So the ghost is gone from your system…”

“But not the house,” Thomas finished quietly, closing his eyes. He knew there were things that had probably happened while he’d been possessed that they weren’t telling him – probably would never tell him – but at this point he just wanted this whole nightmare to be _over_.

He didn’t push for more answers and no one offered any, and a heavy feeling settled over the car. There was a sort of gloom that came about from the sense of failure, unfinished business, the idea that they – or more specifically, Thomas – would need to return.

Thomas was submerged with a pit of dread in his stomach, the taste bitter in his mouth. He didn’t dare ask about Hamilton now. He wasn’t sure if he could handle more bad news, and surely they would’ve told him by now if it were good.

Instead, he sat forward, resting his forearms on the seats in front of him and trying to breathe through the massive head-spin before asking, “Where are we going now?”

Hercules glanced at him, studying him. Thomas didn’t know what he found when he turned back towards the road. ”The Washingtons’,” he said evenly.

Thomas felt an overwhelming sense of panic that had everything to do with the fact that going to the Washingtons’ would put him one step closer to the moment he’d have to return to the House.

“I want to see James,” he announced abruptly. And the moment he said it, he knew he’d made the right decision. The pit of worry that he’d named ‘Jemmy’ years ago was biting him anxiously, almost as much as the stress over the ghost.

“Okay,” Aaron said, before he was cut off by Hercules.

“Look, we haven’t been able to contact them because of that _stupid_ agreement we made, and we know that James is okay, so we should go see the others first. They might need us.”

“It’s precisely _because_ of the agreement that we should see James first,” Aaron broke in, much to Thomas’ surprise. “We don’t want to interrupt them till they give the all-clear.”

Even though they’d given the go-ahead while Thomas and his group had been at the House, there was still stuff that Church had said they would need to do in order for Hamilton’s body to accept his…self. Thomas hated (and secretly loved) the whole philosophy of it. Maybe one day when all this was over he’d write a lengthy novel on the idea of self and soul, and religion impacting those….

“We go see James.” Angelica’s voice was the deciding vote, and Hercules made a U-turn at the roundabout, face expressionless.

 

* * *

  


White.

That was the first thing that came to mind when Thomas glanced around the hospital room. The walls and tiles were all the same shade of blankness, the hallways slightly accentuated by the arrows pointing to different sections of the building. The waiting room was better; it had a few plants here and there, and the walls had large posters regarding health and anatomy. There was even a water cooler in a corner that Thomas would normally have been tempted to go and investigate (but never actually drink from – he was very picky about his water).

And then there was the smell. As the nurse directed them to where James’ room was, it was all Thomas could do to not breathe deeply. The entire area smelled exactly like that one hand sanitiser he’d thrown up after sniffing at a Walmart eons ago. He focused on the rooms they passed, and on actually staying awake – he was about ready to faceplant into a pillow.

There was a woman in typical nurse garb standing walking past them with a clipboard. She smiled at them as she passed, and said, “Just two visitors at a time, please—”

“Excuse me! Nurse! Miss!” A familiar voice called out and the door they were standing in front of flew open.

They all jumped slightly, the amount of noise unfamiliar in the practically silent hospital.

“Is something wrong?” The nurse hurried into the room.

Thomas’ heart was in his mouth as he followed her, but could only manage to squeeze his head around the doorframe; three other bodies had had the same idea as him, and now were all hovering in the doorway.

“No, no! My friend wishes to…sign himself out. MIA.” Gilbert stood confidently at the foot of James’ hospital bed.

The nurse went to the monitor on the side, checking the readings. “Do you mean AMA?” she asked wryly, smile growing wider as Gilbert stood there unabashedly.

“Yes, I wish to check out AMA,” James said, wincing as he sat up.

Thomas hurried in, shoving past the group gathered at the door and going to James’ side. He’d spent the majority of his life there; just because he’d stabbed him while possessed didn’t mean that would change. A hysteric laugh almost burst out of his mouth at the thought. _God, what even was his life anymore?_

“I’ll go get your papers, Mr Madison, but you should know that this is very much _against_ our recommendations.” The nurse slipped out, but not without another reminder of the visitor limit.

Thomas placed a hand on James’, the touch sending waves of relief down his spine. “Jemmy?”

“Hey, Thomas. You okay?”

Thomas let out a snort. “I’m not the one with a gaping hole in my body.”

James shrugged, and then let out a hiss as it pulled at the wound. “I dunno – that mouth of yours is a pretty big one.” 

It was typical banter. The kind amongst close friends. The sort that he and James had practically built their friendship around. But instead of laughing or retorting, Thomas found his face crumbling. He gripped James’ hand tighter, swallowing against the lump in his throat as he tried desperately to keep himself from sobbing all over his friend.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to get out as he practically fell into the chair beside the hospital bed. “I’m so sorry. I-I should’ve been stronger, even a tiny bit…I should’ve been able to stop it from happening—”

“Thomas,” James interrupted. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Everything turned out okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You almost _died_ because of me _—”_

“It could’ve been any one of us,” James stated calmly, eyes unwavering. “It was just dumb luck it was you and me."

Thomas didn’t believe entirely in luck, or entirely in fate, but what he considered to be a decent balance of both. But this? This was entirely upon him. His inability to control the spirit long enough for them to do something – whether that was running away or an exorcism – was entirely on him. But he kept his mouth shut, not wanting James to waste his energy pointlessly arguing. 

Just then, the door opened quietly, and Hercules poked his head in. Thomas hadn’t even noticed the others had disappeared, leaving them to have their privacy. “We got a call from the others,” he told them, expression serious. “If you two are leaving with us, we should go now.”

 

* * *

  


Walking into the Washingtons’ was like déjà vu for Thomas. It seemed like an entire lifetime had gone by since his last visit, when everything had been terrible but there’d still been a feeling of normality in the air.

There hadn’t been stab wounds and ghosts leaving stains that no one could see or remove.

Gilbert had ran off ahead of them the second they’d entered, rushing into the house to check in on Hamilton with Angelica following closely behind to see the extent of the damage to the house. Aaron had stuck with Thomas as he’d helped James get out of the car (although James glared at both of them when they tried to offer him an arm).

But now, as they entered the hallway, Thomas could feel his heart begin to beat faster. No one had told them what had happened here, and yet the air was joyous. Hopeful.

Although it hadn’t been verbally confirmed by anyone, Thomas knew that Hamilton was awake.

Aaron stepped into the room, and from outside, they could hear a shocked, “Alex!” that confirmed all of Thomas’ suspicions, especially when it was returned with, “Burr!’ in a tone that mocked Aaron’s.

His heart practically skipped a beat at the sound of Hamilton’s voice. He hadn’t heard it for _months_ , had become used to the silence of his ghost self, but now that it was here once again… 

He didn’t know if he could go in. The question rose in his mind, as it had that first night he’d visited Hamilton’s body: what was he to Hamilton? What was he doing here? He was nothing but a passing acquaintance, an old enemy, maybe even a bully to some extent if one truly considered how they’d parted ways.

“Thomas,” James grumbled from beside him. “You’re blocking the hallway. Just go in, you idiot.”

Well. If he _had_ to.

They walked to the crowd around the bed together, Thomas eternally grateful to James for allowing the illusion that Thomas' grip on James' elbow was for his support. There was a sort of bubble around Hamilton’s bed, all the conversation around it in a sort of hushed tone, as though speaking too loud would bring everything back to what it’d been only a few hours ago.

“…fucking wild, man!” That was Hercules, suddenly more animated than he’d been the whole day, as though there’d been a part of him dormant. 

John Laurens was leaning against wall adjacent to the bed, facing the door, with a look on his face that clearly showed how out of place he felt. Gilbert, who would typically pick up on insecurities like this, was currently part of the mob surrounding Hamilton.

“It was terrifying as shit, but now I don’t have to go to the gym till next week.” Peggy ran a hand through her hair, pushing it out her face as she leaned against the headboard of the bed, gazing down to what Thomas assumed was Hamilton’s face.

There was a huff of laughter from a voice that had been unused for a long time, and Thomas’ hands grew clammy. It was a sound he hadn’t heard out loud in… years.

The entire group looked up as James walked up to them, Angelica quickly drawing up a chair for him. “Here,” she said. “You shouldn’t pull on your stitches.”

James grimaced, and Thomas glanced down to see a small line of red on James’ shirt. He felt faint, all of a sudden. “Too late, I’m already bleeding out.” 

John hurried over, and there was a flurry of movement as everyone shifted their attention from Hamilton to James.

“I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt,” John told him, snapping on a pair of gloves.

“Have you and Gilbert even gotten this far?” James muttered before looking up and seeing all the concerned eyes gazing at him. “I’m gonna need more privacy than _this_.” 

“The room next door should be empty,” Eliza offered, going out to check. “It’s one of the guest rooms.”

“That’ll do fine,” James said, gripping Thomas’ arm as he stood with a wince. When Thomas began to follow him to the door, he turned on him with a disbelieving look that clearly said, _stay here and talk to him, you imbecile._

There was no way he deserved someone as intuitive as James, and Thomas had no idea what James had done in his previous life to end up with a friend who would literally stab him. _Something shitty like slavery, probably_.

And then he was left with no excuses to avoid Hamilton.

But before he could say anything to him, Hamilton spoke. “What’s wrong with James?”

Thomas stared into his eyes, unable to form a sentence. He looked so… alive. There was blood in his face as talked and smiled, the hair past his shoulders but facial hair all gone due to regular shaving by Martha. There was something hollow in his expression, but the dark circles under his eyes were now entirely gone and there was no longer a sense of gauntness that had once haunted the man.

“He was stabbed,” Angelica said when Thomas hadn’t offered an explanation.

“What?!”

Thomas ran a hand through his hair, breaking eye contact. “Yeah, my fault. The ghost possessed me and stabbed him.”

“Thomas, it could’ve been anyone—” Angelica started.

“Actually,” Hamilton interrupted. “No. It couldn’t’ve been.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas frowned. Was there something actually wrong with him…

“You remember that day that douche potato came to see the House, and,” he glanced at Angelica before continuing, “I possessed you?”

Hamilton was skipping the entire part about the panic attack, and Thomas was grateful. “Of fucking course I remember that,” he said, sharper than he’d intended. But the reminder of yet another possession didn’t settle well with him.

Hamilton ignored his snappish tone. “Turns out not all bodies can handle possession. It depends on the spirit possessing it. Andre’s more powerful than me—than I was—so he could smell the residue I’d left on you and seen that you’d already survived one possession. So…” He shrugged.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Thomas began softly, anger growing in him, “that you possessed me without knowing if _I would survive the experience?”_

“Um,” Hamilton chewed on his lip, “technically, I only learnt about this _after_ possessing you.”

“Kinky,” Gilbert muttered in a voice that ensured the entire room would hear him.

Thomas stared at him in disbelief, but before he could say anything else, Peggy broke in. “Wait, so you remember your ghost life?”

“Pretty much,” he replied cheerfully, but Peggy wasn’t done yet. 

“You weren’t tethered to that house. You had no reason to be there. Why didn’t you come see one of us?” Her eyes were brighter than usual, but her voice held strong.

“Peggy…” Hamilton gazed at her helplessly. “I woke up in the hospital, and after I got over the fact that I could fucking float, I figured out I could only interact with inanimate objects. I followed Laf home after he was practically dragged away,” he let out a huff of breath, but his eyes were completely serious, “and I couldn’t get in. There’s this thing, apparently, about spirits being repelled by plants—”

“Holy fucking shit,” Thomas breathed. “You’re the reason all the Thomas plants kept dying.”

Hamilton smirked. “The first two were an accident – but then Laf kept putting it back in the same spot and I was bored.”

“You’re an asshole!”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” Aaron murmured from his spot in the room.

Gilbert had brightened considerably. “See, I told you it wasn’t the potting soil,” he said to Hercules. He received a withering glance in return.

“And I came back here when George and Martha came home, but it was depressing as shit,” Hamilton continued, fighting a yawn. “I visited your place,” a nod to Angelica, “and followed you to work. And then I followed Thomas to some house he was trying to sell because it’s _really_ fun being a poltergeist.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Thomas said. “Do you realise I had a _perfect selling record?”_

“Yes, you only mentioned it fifty times that one day. Why the fuck do you think I decided to target you?”

“It’s beneath me to wonder what goes on in your primitive mind,” Thomas drawled. It was nice to be settling back into their banter, but something seemed off kilter, like there was a ledge and they were both waiting for the other to push them both off it.

Or maybe they were already falling and seeing where they would land.

“Okay, y’all can come back in a few hours after Alex’s had a nap,” John suddenly interrupted, walking in with James. “He’s only woken from a long ass coma today.”

 

* * *

  


They gathered in guest room, not wishing to for George or Martha to overhear them.

“We need to go back,” Angelica said. “We have unfinished business.”

Thomas snorted. “That was dramatic,” he commented. “But Angie’s right. He’s still alive.”

“At this point, I just want to burn that goddamn house to the ground,” Peggy groaned.

“We all do, Pegs, but that’d just make an even bigger mess.” Aaron rubbed her shoulder soothingly, surprising them all with his lack of hesitation to commit a crime.

“And who knows how that’d even go, seeing as we couldn’t even make a scratch on the compass,” Eliza added darkly, glaring at the object on the desk in the corner.

“But now that he isn’t leeching power off Alex anymore, he should be easier to destroy, right?” James asked.

Church, who had only joined them moments ago, nodded. “Yes. And if we use this,” he waved a print out, “it should work.”

“This feels like déjà vu,” Hercules said, reaching for the sheet of paper and reading through it. “Hang on… blood? You seriously wanna ink up the walls with our blood?”

Thomas wrinkled his nose. “Why is blood always the answer… it’s like every other cliché horror movie.”

“It’s in pop culture for a reason,” Church said, shrugging. “Like vampires.”

“Please don’t drop the vampires-are-real truthbomb on us now.” Eliza rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m too exhausted for this shit.”

“No, vampires are fiction. Probably.”

Angelica glared at him, and he gave her an innocent smile that softened something on her face. Thomas, glancing between the two, suddenly came to a realisation.

“Dude, holy shit,” he whispered to James, who had the fortune of sitting beside him. “I think Angie’s with Church.”

“Could you whisper any louder?” James hissed back. “And are you fucking kidding me? It’s taken you _this_ long to figure it out?" 

“I’m sorry I don’t have my love goggles on all the time,” Thomas replied in a furious undertone, “because I have better things to do like _cleanse a house of its spirit_.”

“We’re _all_ doing that,” James replied in the same voice, “you’re just too focused on your own kinky possession thing with Alex.”

“Can you both be any louder,” came a whisper from Thomas’ other side, and the two of them spun their heads around to simultaneously glare at Gilbert. “I think Angelica might just kill you both with her eyes.”

And they turned to see Angelica staring at them like a vulture before it preyed upon the dead.

“…the blood ritual with blood from Alexander,” Church was saying when Thomas tuned back in. “And that should do it.” He made a little mark on the paper, then handed it to Angelica, who took it and scanned through, nodding.

“Sounds simple,” she said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

Thomas made grabby fingers at her, and she handed him the sheet. It had a list of ingredients – all common household items, so that made their lives easier – and another that had words in a foreign language.

“So…” He looked through the ingredient list again. “We just do the weird mix thing and chant the spell and he’ll die?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Angelica replied, the _which you would know if you had been paying attention to this rather than my love life_  strongly implied.

“The ingredients are mixed – which I will be doing – and then the compass goes in and is destroyed, which severs the tether the ghost has to it and in doing so, kills it again. The blood sigils on the walls will be happening during this to ensure the ghost doesn’t then bind itself to the house.” Church explained.

“I’m assuming it’ll be the two of us?” Thomas asked. “No use risking anyone who isn’t absolutely necessary.”

“The fuck are you on about?” Peggy said. “As if any of us would stay here because it’s too dangerous.”

“It doesn’t matter whose blood it is on the walls,” Church added. “As long as it is blood. We only need a vial of Alexander's for the ritual.”

Thomas gazed helplessly around the room. “I don’t want anyone else to end up like James did.”

“There’s some charm thing you can wear to make sure you can’t be possessed,” said a voice from the door, and Thomas looked up to see Hamilton standing there in one of his signature hoodies, with John standing beside him. “Angelica has one. She looked... different... when she came to the House with it on.”

All heads went to Angelica, who touched her collar, the imprint of a necklace underneath it visible over the fabric. She glanced at Church questioningly. 

He nodded. “It’s a simple protection charm, but yes, it should protect one from possession as well.” Looking at the rest of them, he added, “I can make one for everyone going.”

“I won’t be going,” James said, “obviously.”

Thomas, although having expected this, felt a wave of relief crash over him. “How many sigils do we need to make?”

“The walls on the living-dining area should be sufficient,” Church told him. He stroked his chin thoughtfully; the gesture made it seem as though he was used to having more facial hair than he currently possessed.

“There are,” Thomas did a quick count, “seven walls, at a stretch. Including the sliding door.”

“Then everyone minus James and Alex will be enough,” Angelica said.

“Um, excuse me?” Hamilton spoke up from the doorway, expression grim. “Why am I being excluded from this list?”

“Because you just woke up from a coma—”

“Yes, I know I just woke up from a coma, but that doesn’t mean I’m useless! I feel fine—”

“You were in a coma for three months, two weeks, and four and a half days,” Gilbert said quietly, staring at his hands. The room fell silent at the weight of his words. “By your own admission, you weren’t present in your body. There would’ve been no hope of you ever waking up because you were already gone from the place. Do you know what that spell Church used did to you? It dragged you back. _Dragged_ you here, because you wouldn’t have come back the natural way. _You were dead_. In all the ways that mattered. And now you want us to take you to a place where we don’t even know if _we’ll_ come out? Are you really so selfish that you would do that to George and Martha?”

Hamilton was staring at Gilbert with wide eyes, a bright sheen to them. “I—I’m sorry...” he stammered, clearly at a loss for words.

When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything more, Church sighed and stood up. “We should leave now. Get the job done faster and give Andre less time to figure out an alternative way of getting power.”

And slowly, everyone filtered out of the room. Hamilton stood by the door, watching everyone with a frozen expression as they walked by him, giving him a smile or a hug on the way out. Gilbert didn’t look at him as he exited the room, and Hamilton watched him go with an indecipherable expression.

But when Thomas moved to go past him, unwilling to meet his eyes, he felt a hand suddenly grab at his. Whirling around to face its owner, he felt himself stare into a face he’d once claimed to be the mirror image of Umbridge.

“Don’t go,” Hamilton implored him, “I can’t protect you there anymore.”

“I have to,” Thomas replied. “It’s my unfinished business.” And with a soft smile towards Hamilton, he followed the others out the door, feeling the stare of those eyes on his back as he left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u have no idea how long I've waited to write that end scene with ham and thomas it was one of the scenes this entire fic is built on
> 
> Lol I feel like the massive break changed my writing a fair bit (seeing as I actually read real books in that time lol) which is why this chapter (or even the first part compared to the rest) might seem different 
> 
> Thanks for reading and sticking with me for so long ^~^


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pokes head out of hole where i've been buried for the last month* hi
> 
> so,, there was a clusterfuck with one of the chapters where the chapter that was supposed to be the fifth wasn't?? posted??¿??¿??? (either that or it accidentally got deleted bc like how tf do i not post a chapter hOW DoEs OnE EntiRELy ForGET TO POsT A ChaPTER wHAT) 
> 
> not knowing the contents of that chapter (its chapter 5 btw in case anyone wanted to go read it before this) won't really affect your understanding with this, so feel free to continue on without having read it
> 
> Shoutout to Lesty for beta-ing this =D go check out her writing it's awesome

There were so many things going wrong here that Thomas had lost track. He hit the floor with a grunt, the impact driving all the oxygen out of his lungs, and he lay there for a few long seconds as he waited both for the air to come back and for the branch that had just broken through the window to be withdrawn.

“Say what you will about this dick,” Angelica hissed through her teeth, face next to Thomas’, “but you gotta admit he’s smart.”

“I really wish you’d stop admiring the fuckwit that’s trying to kill us,” Peggy grumbled. With her hair tied back tightly and dressed in what she dubbed as her ‘monster killing outfit’, she looked like a character from a dystopian novel.

“Incoming!”

The shout came from across the room, and Thomas whirled around just in time to see vases zoom towards his face. Cursing, he jumped to the side, taking Peggy with him when she stood there frozen. They crashed into the wall behind him, the cheap plastic not even breaking at the impact.

Aaron whistled. “Damn, where’d you get those?”

“Walmart,” Thomas replied with a grin. “All the glass ones are back at the office. Hamilton kept breaking them.”

“Of course he did,” Angelica muttered darkly. She was the one who’d personally shopped online for the majority of the household items they used in display homes, being part of their interior decor team, and had a bit of an attachment to things.

“When’s your boyfriend gonna finish his spell,” Eliza questioned as she narrowly avoided being sprayed with hot water.

“Don’t call him that,” Angelica said sharply. “And, I don’t know…” She glanced to the side of the room where Church was still mixing various herbs and ingredients. “How many sigils have we done?”

“We have three walls left,” Aaron told her, wiping his hand on a tissue and staining it with the bloody concoction they were using to paint the wall with the symbols. "They're taking a really long time. It's like the walls won't hold the bloody shit long enough for us to draw it, so we keep having to go over parts."

“Herc and I are almost done with this one,” Eliza called.

“I’ll start that one with whoever’ll help,” Thomas said, nodding to the wall to the side.

Peggy walked over with and they’d just gotten out the slip of paper with the drawing of the convoluted symbol when there was a sudden gust of air. Frowning, Thomas looked up at the windows, confusion deepening when he saw that they, along with the sliding door, were closed.

“Where’d the creepy wind come from?” Hercules asked, echoing Thomas’ thoughts.

“Everything’s closed…” Angelica furrowed her brows, and then her eyes widened.

Thomas stepped closed in alarm, trying to get a glimpse of what she saw. She was standing right in front of the hallway, the only one with a decent view of the front door.

“What is it?” He was suddenly punched in the stomach, and before he could get a look at who the fist belonged to, he was bending over double, trying to draw in a breath.

Peggy and Aaron were showering the area in front of Thomas with salt (their saviour today), and Thomas tried his best not to get any in his eyes as Angelica dragged him back. He looked up, finally, and felt his body fill with a sense of dread and understanding as he took in the figure cowering before them.

It was Prevost. The dick customer who’d gone through all their houses on display and finally saw this one. He’d had no idea his gut instinct was so on point. If only James were here for him to say  _ I told you so _ to…

“Um, excuse me?” Angelica said loudly. “There’s no open house today.”

Thomas almost snorted aloud. They must’ve made quite a picture, standing there in what probably looked like an earthquake-torn room, with blood on the walls in cult-like symbols, and a man sitting cross-legged on the ground with a bowl of strange smelling ingredients.

Anyone in their right minds would’ve run by now and called the police.

But Prevost stood there, his suit drenched in something that Thomas couldn’t quite recognise, and cocked his head to the side. His hair was matted to his forehead and face paler than it’d been when Thomas had seen him. There was something off about him.

“You have something of mine,” he said in a low hiss, mouth moving to shift into a smile. His voice was somehow inaudible and loud at once, the sound filling Thomas with a feeling of trepadition that he’d come to attribute with the supernatural.

And then the man’s eyes and nose started to bleed black goo.

“That’s fucking gross,” Peggy muttered, and then quickly turned back to finish the rest of the symbol. It was as though she could tell that he wasn’t quite normal, that there was something not human about him.

“Um, should we do something?” Thomas asked hesitantly, fighting the urge to hide under a solid piece of furniture.

“The dude hasn’t exactly done anything threatening yet,” Eliza said, shrugging. “Maybe he’s drunk.”

Angelica raised her eyebrows at her sister in disbelief. “What sort of alcohol do you go around drinking that makes you bleed black shit?”

And then Prevost attacked. He leapt straight at Angelica, knocking her to the ground. There was a thump as she hit the floor. Thomas grabbed the nearest object – a table clock – and attempted to hit him over the head with it, but it was grabbed out of his hand and flung across the room.

Church had abandoned the spell and run over to Angelica, who was blinking dazedly up at him.

“Finish the rest of the sigils!” Thomas yelled, driving the rest of them to action. “I’ll deal with this guy.”

Aaron threw a handful of salt at Prevost, which only resulted in him hissing slightly before continuing his advance, prowling towards them with the slowness of a predator that has its gaze set on its prey.

“He’s kinda like the Walkers from the Walking Dead, isn’t he?” Thomas gasped.

Aaron gave him a judging glare. “Is this really the time?”

“They do it in all the superhero shows and manage to be badass anyway,” Thomas said, shrugging.

“This wall’s done!” Hercules shouted over the din of… at this point, it was hard to tell what was making the background noise they’d all grown accustomed to. There was the loud wind that came from the supernatural storm that either the ghost had summoned, or a side effect of their magicking; the clashing of the chairs at the small table in the corner of the room that the spirit was playing with like one drummed fingers on a desk, only much less rhythmic and more chaotic; the sound of water spurting out of the tap at random intervals; the buzzing of electricity in the lights that continued to worry Thomas, who made it a point to not stand directly below any if he could help it.

With Eliza and Hercules moving onto the second last wall, Peggy being assisted by Angelica on the last wall, and Church still humming over his bowl, it left only Aaron and Thomas to keep Prevost busy.

“Why the fuck is it taking so long to do these sigils?!” Thomas shouted as he chucked a fork at the possessed man.

“Have you ever tried painting with blood?” Peggy retorted sharply, pushing her hair back from her face with her forearm but still managing to get a streak of the blood mixture on her face. “This shit isn’t in any way cooperative and Andre isn't helping.”

Thomas let out a frustrated exhale of breath.

“Got any rope in this place?” Aaron asked suddenly.

“Um,” Thomas thought for a moment, “we could use the curtain fasteners. The ones upstairs has them.”

Aaron made a run to the staircase, grabbing a bag of salt on the way and showering the path there with it. Thomas hoped he wouldn’t be delayed; it was now up to him to keep Prevost busy.  _ Shit _ .

“Okay, ghosty,” he muttered. Prevost made a run for him, and he ducked, making a grab for his waist in order to pin him down, the other man’s body a solid weight against his own. But maybe it was the ghostly assistance that made Prevost stronger than he had the right to be, because he easily overpowered Thomas and shoved him back.

Thomas hit the counter with a wince, back aching at the blow. He regretted not going to the gym more frequently now. But he’d taken a very short course in hand to hand combat (and regardless what anyone else said, it  _ hadn’t _ been to impress Maria Cosway; that woman was apparently impervious to his charms) and could definitely take this man in a fight. If only he hadn’t had super- strength.

Without wasting another second, Thomas grabbed the nearest object he could find – a fake cactus somehow still sitting on the counter – and flung it at Prevost at a run. It didn’t even touch him, curving around as it travelled in the air like Thomas had really shitty aim.

He snarled, “It was  _ magic _ ,” when Angelica echoed his thoughts.

Prevost threw a punch that hit Thomas in the jaw, head snapping back and vision going spotty for a second before righting itself. He stumbled, the world becoming simultaneously sharper and dull. He brought his knee up in a dirty attempt to hit Prevost in the groin – at this point, Thomas would fight with any tactic he could – and Prevost folded in on himself, moving back and bringing his head down in the textbook reaction that led to Thomas bringing him down with a punch.

Only that moment never came, because one minute Thomas thought he was winning, and the next, Prevost pulled a move that was far too speedy for a man his size, sweeping his leg around behind Thomas and hitting him hard behind the knees.

Thomas slammed to the ground, legs going out under him like they’d been cut off. His heart was slamming against his ribs and in the background he could hear the others shouting and cursing as they rushed to finish their jobs, the complicated and intricate artwork taking far too long.

And then there was a sharp  _ clang _ and Prevost fell forward onto Thomas, who quickly shoved his body off of him, a knee going to the small of his back just in case.

Looking up, he stared.

“You’re such a damsel in distress,” Hamilton crowed. “Did you really think you could leave me behind?”

Thomas would never admit to the sheer relief he felt at that moment, seeing him here with him in this house. While he would probably never feel safe in this building again, there was something about Hamilton being there with him that made it better, less like he was on his own.

“I had it under control,” he replied, out of breath. “If you’d gotten here a minute later—”

“Then you’d be the ghost.” Hamilton folded his arms, one hand still clutching the frying pan he’d used to knock Prevost on the head. “Of fucking course you don’t know how to say ‘thank you’,” he muttered, glancing around the space.

Aaron ran up to them, skidding down on his knees in a move that Thomas was sure he’d practised during his air guitar phase. “Here,” he shoved one of the curtain retainers into Thomas’ hands while tying up Prevost’s legs with another. “They were a bitch to get off.”

“Yeah, that was Hamilton’s doing.” Thomas  _ did not _ smile fondly at the memory of that time Hamilton had wound up every single one of the extravagant tasselled ropes holding the curtains back, leaving him to strategically place objects in front of them in order to take the attention away from the mess.

“Sorry,” Hamilton grinned widely at Aaron.

“Should’ve known you’d show up.” Aaron shook his head slightly, slow smile unfurling on his face. “Let’s stuff him in the pantry. We need to exorcise him.”

Thomas blinked. “Um.”

“Ooh, I’ll help!” Peggy’s cry came from across the room. She sauntered over, apparently eager to help them now that the actual task was over. “I’ve always said, a couple that hides corpses together stays together.”

“He’s alive,” Thomas said flatly.

Peggy waved a hand. “Semantics.”

 

* * *

 

“Y’all should take a look at this,” Church called from the other end of the room.

“Ew, is that the compass?” Hercules wrinkled his nose.

“It collapsed when you drove the spirit from Prevost’s body. I think he was the one to plant the compass here, and in doing so, lead Andre’s ghost to the house.”

“I knew I had a bad feeling about him,” Thomas muttered darkly.

But Hamilton frowned. “How come I didn’t sense the compass when he dropped it off?”

Church shrugged. “Dunno.”

“You don't know? But… you’re like… the all powerful sage advisor of this squad. You’re like our  _ Gandalf _ ,” Peggy said.

Church quirked his lips. “I haven’t even passed all the training for a witch in my coven yet.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Okay, so what now?” Angelica interrupted.

“Now we just follow the plan,” Church said. “It’s easy from here—”

The ground beneath their feet trembled.

“Man, you fucking jinxed us,” Hamilton grumbled, grabbing hold of Thomas’s arm when the shaking became more pronounced. And Thomas, who should’ve been paying more attention to his surroundings, could only focus on the heat that travelled up the limb at a mere touch. He froze, unsure of how to react.

“You okay?” Hamilton asked, frowning at him. “You seem kinda stiff.”

“There’s a magic earthquake and we’re trapped in a house possessed by a ghost that should be stuck inside a compass that’s now a gooey mess,” Thomas hissed, finding his voice - and his footing. “Do I seem like I need a reason to not be stressed?”

“That’s true.” Hamilton nodded. “Dinner?”

“What?”

“We spent like fifty hours a week together for months. I want you to come to my place and have dinner with me.”

And then the lights went out. Or, that was what it felt like to Thomas, because everything went black, which he knew couldn’t happen normally because it was daytime and the storm wasn’t bad enough to make the world this  _ dark _ . But then his mind registered the sound of the windows shutting behind the blinds and it clicked. The ghost had trapped them in the darkness of the house, hiding them from each other and an easy end to this situation.

“Is everyone okay?” Eliza called out.

A chorus of voices answered her.

“Wait,” Peggy said, a note of fear creeping into her voice. “Where’s Aaron?”

Thomas fumbled around for his phone, not caring that Andre would instantly kill the torch the second he turned it on. Aiming it in front of him, he clicked on the button.

And screamed.

There was a face made out of decaying skin right in front of him, its hollowed and bloody eyes staring without looking inside Thomas, the flabs of flesh appearing to drip right off the bones as it reached out. The smell was what made it worse, because while he might be somewhat accustomed to jumpscares, screens had never transferred the  _ stench _ of rotting flesh and it travelled into Thomas’ mouth and nose and—

A handful of salt was all it took to get it to disappear. Hercules showered it an entire bag, and the bones crumbled down but vanished instead of hitting the floor, soundless. The light flickered and sent them all into darkness once more.

“Okay, everyone grab onto someone,” Hercules called out, reaching towards Thomas, who grasped around for Hamilton's hand.

Thomas inwardly cursed himself for being such a deadweight. He was the most useless person here and it would end up getting himself or one of his friends killed. He needed to step up his game.

“Guys, we turn our torches on one at a time, and only when we need to,” Peggy said. “Mine first, and we make our way to the bowl thing and do whatever it is that comes next. And  _ keep looking for Aaron!” _ Her voice was steady, something Thomas marvelled at. He had no idea how she did it.

The next five minutes were probably the most dizzying experience of Thomas’ life. It felt like being in a club, where the lights would flash at intervals but the rest of the time the world was an almost painful level of music that became everything while the rest of reality vanished. It was the anchor that you clung to, the tether to life and this plane of existence. That, and the bodies surrounding you, everyone brushing one another in the search to find whatever it was that they were after.

The darkness felt inky, like an oily substance around him as he clung onto Hercules’ sweaty hand and tried not to get lost in the emptiness. It would be easy. In this blind nothing, he could only sense Hercules and Hamilton next to him. He could feel bodies brush against him – or maybe it was just one body, over and over again – that put him on edge, every touch making him flinch away. It felt malefic, like it was finally eclipsing. He shivered violently when nails scraped against his cheek possessively, the rasp of their unevenness on his beard sounding in Thomas' ear.

Hercules shone the light forward when they’d shuffled a few steps, and dropped to his knees, dragging Thomas along with him.

Aaron was there, lying on the ground and struggling to breathe, vines of oily black fog wrapped around his body. His eyes were beginning to drip with something, but Thomas couldn’t tell it if was red or black or clear.

“Salt.” He raised his voice. “We need salt!” 

Almost before he’d finished speaking, a bag was flung at them and Hercules caught it midair, ripping it open and  _ pouring _ it over Aaron. Thomas let out a yelp as Aaron was buried under a mound of it, and frantically dug through to free him from spluttering as the tendrils drew back, almost as though they’d only been repelled, not hurt.

“You take Aaron,” he told Hercules. “I’ll go—”

“With me.” Hamilton said.

“You got Church where he needs to be?”

“Duh,” Hamilton replied, like the child he was. And then he grabbed Thomas’ wrist when the light flickered and went out. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

“What sort of a ghost hunter would I be if I were?”

Their advance was slow and measured, but even with Hamilton’s cold fingers on his wrist, Thomas could feel the sharp claws grappling at his shirt. He shivered.

“Can we do this professionally? Holy shit, that’d be awesome.”

_ Hamilton was insane _ , Thomas thought dimly. There was something very wrong with him if he wanted this to be something he did  _ multiple times _ .

It didn’t happen slowly. There was nothing that indicated itself to be a sort of off switch. The noise was there, and then it wasn’t. There was a sudden silence. Nothing moved. Not even the wind could be heard anymore. The absence of it, after what felt like hours and hours of living inside a heavy rock song, was disorientating, to say the least. It was eerily quiet and the only thing that Thomas could hear was his heartbeat in his head and the rasp of Hamilton’s breath beside him. If it weren’t for the grip on Hamilton’s hand, then Thomas would’ve curled up into a little ball and awaited death.

Everything suddenly smelled like ashes. Ashes and dirt. The kind that smells of earth after its been there rotting away for a long time, with bits of garbage and mouldy fruit in it. It was the strong smell of blood that didn’t come from the now complete markings on the walls that contained the spirit inside the house; it was stronger, like it came from Andre himself.

“Hey, Alex?” Thomas breathed. He didn’t know where he found the courage to speak, because it felt like any disturbance to the quiet would result in his immediate demise. “Yes.”

“What?” Apparently Hamilton felt no such qualms about noise.

“Dinner. Yes.”

All Thomas received in response was a squeeze of his hand. “You didn’t call me ‘Hamilton’. I like it.”

 

* * *

 

There was a roar in his ears as he clung to the people beside him and screamed the exorcism as loud as he could in order to hear himself over the wailing of Andre’s spirit as it fought back with all the power it could muster. The sigils on the walls prevented it from escaping, and so it chipped off the paint from the walls first, and then that layer of gyprock, flinging it around until there was a small tornado inside the room.

They all bore scratches from the objects flinging around. Broken bones were from being flung. Gashes in bodies from being impaled by objects.

And somehow, his group of friends survived and actually blew Andre away with a breath that was both a bang and a whimper. He melted into the flooring instead of crumbling and flaking in a Voldemort-esque manner like Thomas expected him to, the wooden floorboards were staining a rusty black, like old paint chipping off a wall. There was probably no salvation for them.

And yet, as they stumbled out with all their limbs and lives intact, Thomas couldn’t find it in himself to mourn the loss of a life he’d never get back, the loss of what used to be a sort of safe haven where he and Hamilton had met and become grudging friends. It held their history, but he would happily see it burn if it meant he could keep what he’d gotten out of that house.

 

* * *

 

The melted mess of the compass sank into the floorboards with Andre’s spirit.

 

* * *

 

When they opened the door of the pantry, unwilling to leave a bound body there, they found another decaying corpse that Hercules surmised to be about four months dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~(lol once again my fic writing productivity spikes when i have a psych asg due that week)~~
> 
> writing this at 1am last night was an Experience i was paranoid as shit as i typed about young adults in a haunted /house/ why would i base this in a house jfc i live in one 
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys. We've only got the epilogue to go now so bear with me =D
> 
> (i've used salt so much in this chapter its like someones sponsoring me hah)


	23. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happiness - can you imagine?

Thomas didn’t know this when he walked out of the House, but his world would never be the same. Or maybe, as he found himself being tugged forward by Hamilton’s—Alex’s, he corrected himself—hand on his elbow, he did, to an extent. Maybe the tingles that the warm grip on his arm sent up his spine _were_ sending him a message.

But they weren’t telling him how his world would become both brighter and darker at once. How he would be able to see shadows that he couldn’t before, and how he would be able to feel something _inside_ the world that he couldn’t before. He could sense things. He could smell more.

In other words (or, in Church’s words), Thomas Jefferson’s soul had been touched one too many times by a creature not of this plane of existence, and because of that, he could now glimpse into _its_ plane. It was a handy trick, Church had assured him, but Thomas wasn’t sure if he believed him entirely.

Especially when he found himself leaping out of the way of a dark, grizzly thing and running straight into a woman walking her dog. Apologising quickly, he walked as fast as he could to the bar he was heading towards.

It had been a month since they’d defeated (“Vanquished,” Peggy called it) Andre’s ghost, and they’d all decided to meet here today. There were still days when Thomas would wake with that same sense of bone-deep dread, nightmares haunting him as they haunted the others, but the fact that he could now actually see his fears (as could the cat) reassured him somewhat.

Opening the door, he slipped inside quietly, shutting it before one of the small blobs of black goo could hop in too. He didn’t really understand how they worked; sometimes they could go through solid objects and sometimes they couldn’t.

“Thomas!” He followed the sound of chaos and shouting and found his friends taking up the entire back booth of the place, a few perched on the tables themselves. James patted the seat beside him and he made his way there, anxious to quickly sit and avoid being stared at by the rest of the customers who were bound to glance over at the sheer amount of noise they were making.

And then Alex was next to him. “You gotta try this shit,” he said, eyes manic.

“Um,” Thomas sniffed it, his supernaturally-enhanced nose now able to pick up things he didn’t even know had a scent, like dust. And water. “what is it?”

Alex crossed his arms, smiling cockily at him. “You tell me.” 

This was a new sort of game with them, where Thomas was poked and prodded and dared to use his newfound senses. He’d given up trying to get out of it weeks ago, and had to admit, it was fun sometimes. “Raspberry and… bleach?!” Okay, maybe he wasn't as good at this as he liked to think, but it wasn't his fault things smelled the same.

Alex gave him an insulted look. “If I’d wanted you dead, I’d’ve just had to stay in bed instead of _saving your ass_.” He was never letting that go, Thomas thought in exasperation.

“You’re a prick,” Thomas informed him. “And I had it handled.”

Angelica snorted. “Yeah, you did.”

Waving his middle finger delicately at her, Thomas took a sip. Immediately, his senses were overwhelmed with the amount they could _taste_. It was raspberries and watermelon and the sheer taste of a drop of water that had probably gotten splashed in at some point and a lemon which was _sour_ but also _bitter_ and _each individual droplet of the beverage had a different flavour_ and there were days when Thomas wouldn’t want to eat because of this and days where he _had to try everything_ because it was exactly as _Ratatouille_ had promised him food would be like. 

Alex was giving him a questioning look. “So?” he asked. “Good, right?”

Thomas contemplated for a moment. “I’ve had better,” he said casually.

“See if I buy you any more personalised drinks, with this treatment,” Alex huffed. “Partner abuse, that’s what this is.”

John Laurens, sitting opposite Alex, snorted. “Partner abuse? Last night Gilbert took away my stuffed animal collection.”

Eliza, sitting beside him, nodded sagely. “Stuffed animals are creepy,” she said, downing a drink.

Aaron stared. “Of all people, I didn’t expect you to be the one to say no to stuffed toys.”

“Their eyes stare into your soul, and have you ever watched Coraline? That scared the shit outta me, even now.”

“Well, I know what we’re watching next movie night,” Hercules announced.

“Don’t worry, Betsy, I’ll protect you from their button eyes,” Alex said, winking at Eliza. 

Thomas let the conversation wash over him, leaning back in his seat. Alex was gently holding one of his hands under the table while he talked, playing with his fingers as he gestured with the other hand, but never once letting go. And they weren’t perfect, but they were getting there. They were communicating.

And at that moment, even though Thomas could still see the shadows on the outskirts of his vision, there was brightness and light right here where was with his tight-knit family, who were capable of driving it back by sheer willpower. He could live like this, he thought. He could live with happiness like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *grabs tissues bc tears of shock* I can't believe I actually finished this??? 
> 
> Thanks to my awesome beta, Lesty, who motivated me to write and had wild brainstorm sessions with me (half of which I didn't even end up using rip) and is like 75% of the reason this is what it is today. 
> 
> Thank you @ everyone who's been with me from the very beginning, because it was your comments and _the fact that there were people who were reading this_ that kept me writing =) and thanks to those who hopped on board while the train was going because you guys added fuel to the supply that motivated me to actually keep posting and not give up halfway through it =D
> 
> Looking back, there's so much I'd change in terms of plot and character for this fic, but I won't because I'm pretty happy with how this fic turned out (and if i'd wanted to change it after finishing i'd've posted it all at once rather than chapter by chapter lol). I didn't expect it to be anywhere near this length when I started writing it (I thought it was gonna be 40k at most after writing like 30k lol) but it turned out to be almost as long as philosopher's stone??? And it couldn't have happened without all of you reading and commenting, so thank you so much >.<
> 
> (okay I'm done being emotional yall can leave now hmu on tumblr under the same username =D)


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